


The Eluvian Syntax

by briannetoma



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Action, Action & Romance, Adventure, Adventure & Romance, Cat Stamps, Declarations Of Love, Demons, Digital Art, Drama, Dwarf/Human Relationship(s), Eluvians, Explicit Sexual Content, Explosions, F/M, Fantasy, Fighting, Flashbacks, Fluff, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Fun, Gumption, Happy Ending, Honeymoon, Hope, Hurt/Comfort, Includes Music, Includes original artwork, Independence, Inspired by Music, Journal, Kirkwall, Lies, Love Confessions, Macabre, Minor Injuries, Minor Violence, NSFW, Party, Puzzles, Ring of Doubt, Romance, Secrets, Self-Doubt, Slow Burn, Slowmance, Song - Freeform, Sweet, Tavern, Team, Tearjerker, The Fade, True Love, Wedding, battles, minor profanity, roguish mayhem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2018-09-18 07:43:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 57,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9374951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/briannetoma/pseuds/briannetoma
Summary: Varric Tethras can't stand holding back the truth about Marian Hawke after the Inquisitor leaves her in the Fade to die. What he can't stand more is no one is trying to get her back. With the assistance of friends in surprising places, he fights in Thedas and beyond to get to her. The highest costs and the deepest secrets be damned, he won't stop until Hawke is in his arms again, dead or alive.All things Dragon Age belong to Bioware.





	1. This Little Sheet of Paper

**Author's Note:**

> Edit: I deleted the sex excerpt from a certain collection because I feel I was cheating Varric. If you want to read the sex scene, if you want to see the intimate, private side of Varric Tethras, you should earn it, and share in his experience. It makes the scene that more worth it for all the hard work Varric's achieved to make it possible. I know people will want to skip to it, and that's on them if they choose to "cheat," but if you love Varric as much as I do, you'll like this story. Have faith.

  _ **I** hate writing the letter H. It begins with the one thing I ever cared about, and with everything I did wrong. Andraste, damn me. I need a drink. No matter how many times I put on a front for the Inquisitor, or how many games of cards we play, I am dead inside, and no one seems to be doing anything to find closure on the H-word._

_Is she really dead? How could she go up against an army of qunari, kill the Arishok, but not survive one stupid demon? So what if it was one-hundred feet tall and armored like a rock dragon. She’s the Champion of Kirkwall._

_I don’t know how long I can keep pretending I’m writing notes for my crime serial. Cassandra keeps eyeballing me. She either knows something’s up or is hoping I’m jotting down romance scenes for her to go over in her bunk. No, she knows. It’s why she’s not saying anything. And she’s letting the rest of our friends remain oblivious._

_I’m alone at this table. Everyone is smiling but only mine is hollow. At least I have my letters._

_All except one._

 

Varric evens his hand and hums in his throat at the faces of the serpents staring back at him. It’s an average set; one he’ll gladly pretend is worse than it is, so he urges attention to himself with a story about the deep roads. Cassandra’s heard most of his tales already, but she enjoys them more now that she doesn’t have to squeeze them out. It’s the usual crowd here after tavern hours. Cullen makes time now to socialize instead of hunching over his table. Now he can hunch over this one since Varric’s convinced Josephine clothes are no longer the currency of the game. Cole likes that Solas decided to join, but with the Iron Bull, Inquisitor, Sera, and Vivienne out on missions, the game’s a few voices softer.

“It took three days to get the stink out,” he ends.

Cullen laughs, nodding. “I know the feeling. One time, our commander camped us in a bog…”

Varric smiles as everyone draws another card after discarding. He chooses to put down his deceit card and picks up a fresh—

Angel of Death.

 

[](http://fav.me/dbls8dm) 

 

He stares, going quiet. Angels don’t have gender, not usually. He’s seen the card hundreds of times but this one tugs, and mutes Cullen that only his mouth moves and his last word resonates: “Kirkwall.” The room blurs and leaves the face in focus, a woman with long, dark hair holding the wrist of a dying man, pulling him up into the afterlife. Varric traces the heavy outline of the art with his eyes, then the thinning lines within that coat the colored card into an old, textured painting. The flesh tones gravitate to the sound of Bianca setting another arrow—a mechanized stretching every time he pulls the lever to fire another bolt. The Fade is dank and green with the only hope awaiting beyond the Nightmare demon. Ka-shoom, Bianca says, keeping firm against his shoulder as he cocks it back again. This time three—shoom, shoom, shoom—and the Inquisitor shouts to run. Heaving breath, boots scratching in the wet dirt, Varric braces for the light in the opening, then barely hears the Inquisitor again:

“Hawke.”

“Say goodbye to Varric for me,” Hawke says. By the time Varric turns around, Solas grabs his wrist and pulls him through.

Varric puts down the card and his hand.

“Holding out on us, ay Varric?” Dorian smirks.

Cole looks beyond his song set and stares into Varric. “Sinking, clinking, falling. Strength leaves his knees. Cries clean and gleam from blood-stained leather. ‘I can’t go on without you.’”

Varric doesn’t smile. “We’re trying to play cards here, kid.”

“Stone spills the last ink. He cannot write worlds anymore. He can’t tell them.”

“Cole,” he warns.

“Hair shines like Raven’s eye. The paint was never her blood. He never told anyone. He never told the truth.”

Varric’s silence pulses. He balls up his hands, shaking. He stares at a hole in the table but everyone stares at him. The room smolders and chokes air once breathable.

“The stone snaps and shifts, a failed perch for its hawk.”

He doesn’t remember doing it, but the sting rattles up his arms from his fists on the nailed planks, rippling the ale in the steins, and upsetting the card piles, including Josephine’s winning hand. He can’t breathe boiling air—he stands and the chair falls back as he storms out.

Solas turns to Cole. “You upset Varric.”

“He was always sad,” Cole says, “but no one would help let out the hurt.”

Cullen covers the discomfort. “Well, it’s not like any of us were going to win against Josephine anyway.”

“I might’ve,” Dorian says.

Cassandra peers down at a piece of paper floating off the table. It landed by Varric’s chair. Upon pick-up, she reads the lines of trembling squiggles that might have once been Varric’s elegant handwriting. She clutches her chest with it and looks up where Varric left.

 

The heart of Skyhold castle rests in the kitchen where three cooks rush outside to avoid the crossfire. At three in the morning they would prep the breads for the day, but at this point, they are looking to resign, or at least calm their nerves at the tavern behind locked doors. They pass Cassandra along the way, warning her not to go in there. She scowls in judgment and proceeds to breach enemy lines.

She cautiously opens the door and sneaks her head in to see the battle between Varric and several bursting bottles as he shoots Bianca with inescapable precision. 

“What is the meaning of this?” she cries out.

Varric turns and nearly topples backward into the cauldron on the fire. He catches the archway in one hand, Bianca still in the other.

“Oh,” he says. “It’s just you.” He regains balance and rubs the back of his neck. “I don’t have anything charming to say but if you go out and come back in with fewer wrinkles in your condescending snarl, I might be inspired.”

She glares. “Watch your tone, dwarf. For once, I might be on your side.”

“Of what? For what?”

“If this is true.” She raises a page from his scrap journal. 

Varric finds a wheel of swaddled cheese more interesting than that page.

“I knew it.”

“Knew what?”

“You’re avoiding it, so it is true.”

He rolls his eyes. “Hm.”

Varric disappears into the next room but Cassandra follows and nearly blushes when he sits in her favorite hiding spot, underneath the collection of empty bottles. Her copy of his book lies waiting. She folds her arms and clears her throat but it seems Varric takes no notice. He slouches on the bench and pops his head against the cold wall. 

“You have to tell the Inquisitor,” Cassandra says.

“Ehh, she has a lot on her plate right now. This is not a world-at-peril issue to her.”

“But it is to you. And if you can’t stop thinking about it—about her—then you’re no good to the Inquisition. I’ll have no choice but to keep you here until Corypheus is dealt with.”

“I’m fine.” He closes his eyes longer than a couple blinks, then shakes his head, and opens them when the swirls kick in. Sleep is out of the question. “Really.”

“You’re not lying out of this one.” She throws the paper at him, though it doesn’t go as straight as she wants—it flips and corkscrews, then lands exactly left of the direction intended. They both stare at it, but the words face him, and he sees just how many Hs are written (double, counting his impaired vision).

“What do you expect me to do?”

“You love her. You wrote an entire tale about her. You write about her still with no audience but yourself. And yet you can’t take a page from your own characters. The love of your life is in danger and you’re drowning her in your stupor!”

“That’s why I embellish my work. The truth is plain and often too gruesome to read.”

“Then rewrite it. Rewrite the Tales of the Champion. So what if you lied? This story is not over and you and Hawke are not over.”

“It’s not that simple.” He snatches the paper. “This? It’s one-sided. After Anders, I don’t think she could ever love again. And certainly, not me. Besides, I’m spoken for.”

“Clearly. I saw Bianca. She seemed more than willing to come around only when she needed you.”

“Hey now.”

“Am I wrong?”

He waves her down. “Bah.”

“Get over her.”

“Are you really on my side or just on my ass?”

“Someone needs to push you. Might as well be someone else who believes Hawke is alive.”

Varric looks into her dark eyes. “You think she is?”

“I admit my skepticism but after that time you told me about the duel with the Arishok, I was starstruck. She is a strong woman. And a resourceful mage. She would have found a way to survive.” When he does not respond, she continues. “I am a servant of Andraste. I have faith when others do not, even in the smallest chances. And I have seen miracles, including our own Inquisitor, including you.”

“I’m no miracle.”

“But you are here. You walked through the Fade. I have faith you will save her.”

“I don’t even know where to begin.”

“That’s all right because I sought help for you. Come on, Varric.”

“Right.” He sways as he stands. “Let’s go save my Hawke.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Life on the Moon" by David Cook
> 
> Here in this crowd I'm feeling all alone  
> Turn me around and point me back to home  
> I'm getting lost more everyday  
> And I can't tear myself away  
> From the stars in my eyes with no light  
> Here are my terms, have some faith in me  
> And I'll let you be who you need to be
> 
> Life on the moon couldn't be any stranger  
> Life on the moon wouldn't feel this far away  
> The life that I knew is through  
> And I'm gonna need you more than ever  
> I'm alone in this crowded room  
> It's like life on the moon
> 
> Flown off the ground, my head's up in the air  
> Self-conscious to a fault with all the people everywhere  
> It's getting harder every night to take the punches left and right  
> Just to know that you're here by my side  
> Here are my terms have some faith in me  
> And I'll let you be who you need to be
> 
> Getting lost in my own atmosphere  
> Stars in the sky are the stars in my eyes  
> It's the cost of getting out of here alive


	2. The Meeting in the Library

_Kirkwall. 9:37 Dragon._

_Varric fumbles the key into the door of his suite at The Hanged Man, carrying a long, floppy parcel over his shoulders, who keeps trying to blow his loose hair away from his ears. Hawke's breath stinks with ale and memories of laughter with friends. The door almost breaks open and swings into whatever is on the wall as he manages to not hit her head on it. He kicks the door behind him and throws the key somewhere. A strong scent of burning wood chokes the room with the little ventilation he has, suffering the windows near the high ceiling._

_He drags her to his bedchamber, the alcohol long gone after he made the conscious decision to be that friend. He used to be level with Hawke's intoxication—a pint for a pint, swill for swill—but she doesn't live above a tavern. She lives in High Town, short of daily stupors, and he refuses to carry her all that way, since everyone but Rivaini already left. He'd ask her, but she'd make offers he doesn't want to hear, or be a part of, or protect Hawke from not-sober choices._

_"What's up with their vaseline?" Hawke slurs._

_"Sorry?" Varric says._

_"You know. Their tattoos."_

_"Their vallaslin?"_

_"Yeah. What did I say?"_

_"I have no idea. Up ya go." He grunts as he lowers her onto his bed. She drops on her rump and sits, sighing._

_She melodiously chimes, "Ah this is—" She falls back—CRACK._

_Varric winces. The curse of fine dwarven furniture: simple, strong, stone._

_"—harder than it looks."_

_"Yeah, I forgot humans sleep on straw, or whatever that is. Has the pain kicked in yet?"_

_"Nope!" she beams. "Wait. Ow. There it is. Is there blood?"_

_"Nah I don't think you broke anything." He shifts his weight as he shucks off his boots. "Good night."_

_"You're not gonna keep me company?"_

_"Uh." He looks at the dining room chair._

_"Warm? Toasty? Naughty-toasty?"_

_Varric's face warms at the implications._

_"I don't think naughty toast is healthy. Good night, Hawke." He turns to go—_

_She snatches his hand._

_His heart pounds. He swallows the rock in his throat and turns back to reject her again. He looks at her—she's passed out. He's free to go, but he can't stop looking. Clammy forehead, hot cheeks, and partially-opened lips with a subtle drop of drool forming in the corner—he gently squeezes her hand._

It's been four years since she broke up with Anders, although she didn't tell him it was off, merely forced him to confront the consequences of blowing up the chantry by killing him. Ever since, she's never looked at anyone with romantic interest. And since no one can hear his thoughts but himself, he can safely think that he hasn't either. But thoughts can often be twisted lies we tell ourselves to get by. The lie goes when he feels her hand and she's not there, or when he reties his hair, and the strands fall over his ears.

All of this feels like his fault. If he just this. If only that. Inquisition this. That. The cycle goes as do the lies. Now this is the point he stops all that. This is the point where he drops the excuses, and confronts the truth. But can he say it out loud? 

A sober Varric walks into the secret library of the Inquisitor, where Solas, Dorian, Cassandra, and Cole quietly argue diplomatically. 

Would he be able to say it in front of this crowd?

Maybe it wasn't Hawke that was afraid of romance. Maybe he lived through her experience. She said I love you to Anders and just as quick as she said it, he's gone. Though from what Varric gathered, they never knew the real Anders. He changed before showing up in Kirkwall. But do did Hawke.

"Varric," Solas acknowledges.

"I see you've slept most of it off," Cassandra says.

"Sorry I'm late," Varric responds. "I thought we were going to meet in the war room."

Cassandra clears her throat. "

I changed my mind after we had some time to consider. For what we are about to do, I didn’t want to raise suspicion.”

“Are we sure she’s alive?” Dorian says.

Varric’s lungs weigh lead over a stomach of bubbling tar. Before the heat rises to his face, Cassandra responds.

“We believe with absolute faith,” she says. “Hawke is alive.”

Tar turns to water; lead turns to air. Somewhere hidden in the Vault Library comes a breeze to cool his face.

Solas adds, "We're helping you either way, Varric.

If she is alive then we save her. And if she has moved on, then we find her still, and lay a memorial. Closure is one of life's treasures often underrated."

Cole dangles his legs over the dusty table. "I'm sorry, Varric."

"Don't worry about it, kid."

"I want to help."

Dorian chimes in. "And we've found the best way to do it! Although I'm not fond of the possibility of how much this'll go wrong."

"Let's hear it," Varric says. He leans against the bookshelf with the least amount of spiderwebs. Inquisitor could have at least cleaned down here. The smell of old pages caked with generations of dust builds his nausea. 

Solas begins. "First, Hawke is there physically, which means if we want her out, we must also go in the same way as before. The simple solution is to find an Eluvian. They allow anyone knowledgable to enter the Fade. The downside is that it's very possible it will be our only working doorway; our only entrance and exit. The Fade is a labyrinth. If we lose the Eluvian, we are trapped indefinitely."

"Where can we find one? The last Eluvian I knew was in pieces." Poor Daisy.

"Yes. It can be quite difficult acquiring them."

"There is another way," Dorian says. "In the Tevinter Imperium there are mages called the Somniari, able to control the Fade. If we reach out to them, they may know a way of getting Hawke."

"They will not," Solas states. "They might be able to control their dreams and the dreams of others, but as I told you before Varric got here, they cannot save Hawke."

"Well, did you ask them?"

"I don't have to ask."

"Right."

Solas re-focuses on Varric. "And alerting the Somniari alerts the Tevinter Imperium to our plan. We must keep this in our circle."

Varric's gears turn. He looks to Dorian which perturbs Chuckles. "Can the Somniari tell if Hawke is alive or not?"

"Absolutely," Dorian says. "They're known for going into people's dreams and killing them kindly in their sleep. Not that we would be hiring them to do that, of course. But Solas is correct. If we don't want this to spread like wildfire, maybe wait on hiring the dream goon squad."

"I don't know," Varric stretches his hands together. "Seems like a good idea. But let's not alert the Tevinters." He breathes the word. "Somniari." A pause, then, "Also called Dreamers, right?"

"Generally, yes. Thinking of someone specific?"

Varric nods. "I think I might know a guy."

"All right. Mark that off the list of to-dos. What about the Eluvian? We still need to enter the Fade."

"Word from Leliana is the Inquisitor's returning from Orlais," Cassandra says, "and with her—an honored guest, highly knowing in the field of magic."

"They're coming back so soon?" Dorian asks. "I hope they brought those little cakes. But just two or three...or ten. Don't want to lose this jawline."

Cassandra rolls her eyes.

"I fail to see the importance of another magic 'expert,'" Solas says. "What's special about this one?"

"I read the inventory of her cargo. We're always wary of supplies going in and out of Skyhold." She pulls out a slip of paper and hands it to Varric. "It's Leliana's hand. It must be true."

Varric unfolds and reads. It's a basic list, but slipped between overly-starched dress and herbal ointments was the word mirror. Underlined. Twice.

"Maybe it's a fancy mirror and it's just extra fragile." Varric shrugs and hand her the refolded paper.

"She wanted me to see this," Cassandra says. "This is our Eluvian."

"And if you're wrong, Seeker? The time it takes for them to get back could have been time we went out to some elven ruins and sought there."

"The Inquisition already found most ruins," Solas says."There are none functioning."

"Well," Varric shrugs, "if that's our Eluvian, then I can wait." His heart stammers at the thought.

Dorian draws a check in the air.

"Now our strategy," Dorian says. "Who's going with you?"

"We will need a strong defense," Solas says, "but one that can hide easily in the shadows, and avoid unnecessary confrontation. Countless voyages to the Fade allowed me to understand the complexities of the Eluvians. I can open them, but using them, and breaching the Fade with our physical forms, will inevitably attract the demons. The Fade is vast and without a map, we will be lost. Marching into the Fade used to be unthinkable, but since the Inquisitor, perhaps it can be done again."

"Again?" Dorian exclaims. "We might as well alert Thedas we're having a party in the Black City and all are invited! You thought my idea was horrible? You want the Inquisitor to march back into the Fade. People—bad people—want to know how she did it already. To do it again will narrow down their theories into proven methods. You don't want that; the Inquisition doesn't want that. Hell, I don't!"

"Which is why she will not be going," Cassandra says. "And neither will the Tevinter ambassador."

"What?" Wounded. "I'm not going?"

"We need you to ensure the Inquisitor does not know about this."

Dorian gapes. "Lie."

"Yes. Besides Leliana and I, it's better the Inquisition does not know. And as much as it goes against my values, I will not report this to anyone."

"Oh, well, then everything should be fine." He slaps his hands on his hips.

"Please, Dorian."

"All right. To be sure, it's you four that are going? I need to prepare my excuses until you return, then. Any tips on how to explain Hawke's magical reappearance after Ms. Trevelyan sacrificed her to her doom?"

"He's right," Solas says. "Eventually, word will get out."

"Until then we won't say anything." Cassandra crosses her arms. "Inquisitor must be focused on her mission. Are we all clear? Not one word." She glares at Varric.

"Seeker, you know I can keep a secret."

Solas nods firmly. "Indeed."

"If it helps," Cole says.

Everyone stares at Dorian. He pops to attention.

"My lips are sealed," he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Goodbye" by Slipknot
> 
> Come on over  
> Come unglued  
> It's not easy  
> To see all of you
> 
> Help yourselves  
> Help is on the way  
> Well there's nothing to lose  
> So now, I have something to say
> 
> Maybe we can all recognize a moment of silence  
> Maybe we can finally agree on the same point of view  
> A long time ago we believed and we were united  
> So the last thing on Earth I am ready to do is say goodbye
> 
> A long time ago we discovered that nothing could stop us  
> This hasn't torn us apart, so nothing ever will  
> How can we know where we are if the sun is behind us?  
> But this moment will show us the rest of our lives  
> No one is going to save us this time  
> No one can know what we're feeling.  
> So don't even try


	3. A New Definition of Fun

 

_**Love** punishes golden hearts and leaves the strongest cowering to love again. I watched Hawke after the demise of Meredith. So many lives lost, but none affected her as much as those whose blood creased in the wrinkles of her palms. She adored freedom for mages. I doubt she ever saw freedom the same way after that. Hawke once slipped into my suite and got the pointy end of Bianca, said she’s going into hiding, leaving me with the aftermath, and the rising war. I didn’t beg her to go because no one stops a Hawke once their mind’s made up. Have you met her mother?_

_“The Wardens found a safe route out of Kirkwall,” she had said. “I’m taking it.” I saw her fiddling with something in her hands. “You should come with me.”_

_I thought turning her down was the smart thing to do. I told her we still had a city to clean up, but she didn’t feel safe anymore. Her entire life had not been safe. I knew what she meant. Every corner from Darktown to Viscount’s Way reminded her of it all. Of him._

_“I can’t,” I said foolishly. “I—got a lot of work to do here.”_

_And when the silence fell stagnant she blurted out something I repeat in my head every morning. “Did I do the right thing?”_

_“Frankly, I don’t know what’s right or wrong. But I know what’s effective and you saved a city doing that, so…”_

_“Thanks, Varric.” And then, “Well…” She exhaled._

_“All right, Hawke,” I said. “You better look me in the eye and tell me I’m gonna see you again.”_

_She looked._

_She looked like she was going to say goodbye forever._

_“You’re gonna see me again.”_

_It felt like forever, long after the words left her, and lingered in the vacant spot she stood until she put something over her finger, and vanished._

In three days, the Inquisitor brought back her caravan. Varric thought he had a week. Apparently, so did everyone else, but when Cassandra burst through the main hall, Trevelyan told her they had great weather coming back.

Varric blows the bone dust off the page before setting it inconspicuously with the loose business papers under his breakfast plate. An untouched trout weighed it down—a cooked trophy Blackwall offered from his fishing trip. Just as Varric stands, the massive doors break apart again, bringing in the shining outdoors and casting the Inquisitor’s silhouette. She’s a fit figure with short hair and in a frighteningly good mood, despite what he heard happened at the palace.

Logan Trevelyan springs into the hall, singing something that would cause bards to throw themselves off cliffs. Maybe that was overdramatic. Off a dock into kissing-fish-infested waters that tickle them until they pee. Much more likely.

It’s customary that the first person she talks to is her closest friend, Dorian Pavus, but this time she goes straight to the dwarf.

“Varric!” she cries. “You should’ve been there. I could have stolen you away for a dance.”

“If the cartel were there it would have been a private dance. That…that came out worse than I meant it to.”

Logan’s laugh flushes her cheeks as red as her hair, a bright contrast to her pale green eyes. Her infectious optimism would have worked on him today, except he keeps thinking back to the cargo that’s potentially arrived with her guest, a woman named Morrigan. 

“I feel like I finally did something that brings light into this mess.”

“Sounds like it’ll make a great story. What happened? My interest is all aflutter.” Varric offers his chair to her, and he leans against the table, guarding the paper stack.

“I reunited two lovers that once lost each other over petty politics. Ah love. Seeing Cullen in that uniform was a bonus. Mmph. What about you? Write any more juicy chapters for Cassandra?”

Varric checks that Cassandra already left the area.

“Actually, I think I’m gonna take a break from writing that serial for a while. I’m due for some personal development.”

“I’m sure it’ll help your books. Good luck, Varric.”

She leaves for the Atrium Library with one hand stuffed in her pocket. Varric sighs and as soon as he turns, he jumps—Cole holds a small package out addressed to one of Varric’s pen names.

“It says Chuck Lette Einskreme but he wrote it for you.”

Varric takes the box. “Thanks, kid. I wouldn’t have sent you but—time constraints.”

“His doubt is heavy in his heart so he wears it on his hand. Neither place is comfortable but he is safe.”

For once, and not to be rude, Varric ignores him. Panic envelops when a waft of something sweet catches his nose.

“You smell that?”

“A thoughtful gesture—too sticky to carry. The elf with the tall hat cloaks it appreciatively.”

“Uh-oh. That’s trouble.”

The night in the Vault Library, the five of them spent every hour solidifying a plan. Although none of them expected Dorian to keep his word, none of them came up with a reasonable back-up plan if, or when, Dorian was to succumb to his “best girl.” Even Dorian coached himself to resist any temptation, including a nude portrait of the Inquisitor’s commander.

Varric holds the box tightly and races for the curving staircase to the atrium, his short legs skipping two steps in their frenzy, only to stop at the top of the flight, and see Dorian whimpering in his chair, with a diabolical Inquisitor hovering over him with her crescent moon smile. She dangles a cake over Dorian’s head.

“Come on, darling,” she sings. “You can tell me.”

He’s sitting on his hands. Dorian vibrates a ‘no’ with wide eyes staring at the white frosting and baked batter. It doesn’t seem Logan’s noticed him standing there yet. 

Varric moves in. “Dorian! There you are! I need your expert opinion on this next character I’m creating.”

Inquisitor doesn’t look up. “Varric’s in on it, isn’t he? He seemed off when we talked.”

“Now, now, Inquisitor. We can’t spoil the surprise.”

“After what happened to me at the palace, I don’t want any more surprises.”

“I thought you said you did good!”

“That was after.”

“Agh fine. Might as well tell you.”

Dorian says, “Varric, don’t!” But Logan slaps her hand over his mouth and turns her head like a possessed doll.

“We were planning a party.”

“Uh mirfay ar-ee!” Dorian tries.

“Yeah! Exactly! We didn’t want you to get upset if you weren’t able to make it. But here you are, a week early!”

Logan uncups Dorian’s mouth.

“Who’s birthday?”

“Solas!” Dorian blurts out.

“Ssh!” Varric hisses, pointing with a nod down to the rotunda. 

“Right.” He whispers. “Solas’s.”

Logan looks left, right, left. “I didn’t know Solas celebrated his birthday.”

“That’s the fun part,” Varric says. “We don’t know either, so we want it to be a surprise.”

“When is it?”

“Tues—”

“Tuesday?”

“To—two days. Sorry. I thought it was three.”

Dorian arches brow. “Are you sure it isn’t three?” His eyes plead.

“Two days,” Varric confirms.

Then, after a long breath held in his gut, the Inquisitor’s frown curls up, and wrinkles her jowls into a big grin. She insists on helping with the plans and who are they to decline the Herald? The fastest way to a party manager is through the Hall, so Dorian, Logan, and Varric slink down the stairs, and push open the door—

“What are you doing?”

Solas stands in the archway of his rotunda. His hands are spotted in paint, but the rest of him is clean. Varric’s heart pounds and he’s almost sure there’s another in him that just had an attack.

Logan’s smile freezes. “Nothing.”

“Really?” he says, unconvinced. 

“Did you know that even Josephine’s knickers have ruffles? We’re going to find out. Wanna join?”

“I’ll pass.”

Solas bores into Varric with his steel eyes. Cole appears beside Dorian, not looking at anyone in particular.

“So many shiny daggers,” Cole says, reaching for something invisible.

“You got…something…” Logan wiggles a finger at Solas. “There.”

“Hm?” Solas taps the spot. “Oh.”

“Do you want me to—?”

“No. Thank you. Excuse me.” He flashes one last glare at the dwarf, then walks away.

Logan blindly shoves Dorian and Varric through the door (“Go, go, go,” she hisses.), eyeballing Solas at his table, who found a cloth to wipe his face.

Now that Josephine is involved in the birthday party, there’s no stopping Solas from having the best celebration ever, compliments of the entire Inquisition. Varric hopes Solas likes dates. Candied, shriveled fruit are in this year, as are antler garnishes, duck head shoes, and that game where people make up a rhyme, and the other players have to guess the words. Ruffles put Varric on casually-ask-Solas-his-favorite-color duty. Eventually he’ll have to ask, right after he explains why they threw Solas under the wagon. Maybe it’d be easier to put it in a letter.

Varric escapes Josephine’s office, leaving her, the Inquisitor, and Dorian to prepare behind the door he leans against. He breathes in for a huge sigh—

He jumps out of the way before the door bursts open upon hearing the tiniest sound from the other side. Dorian spins around and closes it back up, looking just as exhausted as Varric feels.

“Ah that was fun,” Dorian says.

“Get used to it, Sparkler.”

“Must be hard keeping track of all your lies. You breed them like nugs with nothing to do.”

“Oh like you helped. Solas? Really?”

“It was the first name that popped into my pretty head. If I said Cole we would’ve been living outside the gates.” 

“All right, all right. We’ll just ride this out.”

Dorian adjusts his collar. “Yes. Good luck with that riding, because now I have to figure out how to keep my highly intuitive friend and comrade known to Thedas as the ambassador for Andraste out of our little loop of a fiasco you created.” He sighs. “I need a shower after that party-planning—ugh—but it’s such a pain to get out of this getup. Oh the dilemma.” 

Dorian Sparkler Pavus: exit centerstage.

Varric mentally kicks himself, which is probably what Dorian would have done if he wasn’t so polite. But one good lesson did come out of it all: Dorian’s resilience is stronger than his cravings. 

Now that Dorian has a solid distraction, for a couple days at least, Varric takes a moment in the garden, looking out from the cover. The sun hides behind a patch of clouds and softens the shadows throughout the courtyard. A few of the herbs bloomed while Inquisitor was away; she’s yet to harvest. Morrigan occupies the gazebo; she shaved the dress she was rumored to wear and has taken to an unorthodox wardrobe that shows more chest than him. He admits his minor jealousy to no one. But his is pettable. Can she pet hers? No. Well, yes, but the only person he knows to pet hairless chests is Leliana, and her obsession with nugs can be overwhelming.

What comes next depends on how everyone can go against their morals for the sake of himself. Cole’s willing, Cassandra said so too (which is the same as a knight swearing an oath all twenty-four hours of the day), but now he has to add to Solas’ pile of shit he knows the elf doesn’t want to deal with right now. How Varric’s going to talk himself out of this one is Andraste’s guess.

He leans on the stone railing and turns the box continuously over between his gloved fingers.

At least some things are going according to plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Lie" by David Cook
> 
> You whispered that you were getting tired,  
> Got a look in your eye,  
> Looks a lot like goodbye.  
> Hold on to your secrets tonight.  
> Don't want to know I'm ok with this silence  
> It's truth that I don't want to hear
> 
> You're hiding regret in your smile  
> There's a storm in your eyes I've seen coming for awhile  
> Hang on to the past tense tonight  
> Don't say a word,  
> I'm ok with the quiet.  
> The truth is gonna change everything.
> 
> So lie to me and tell me that it's gonna be alright  
> So lie to me and tell me that we'll make it through the night  
> I don't mind if you wait before you tear me apart,  
> Look me in the eye,  
> And lie, lie, lie.
> 
> I know that there's no turning back.  
> If we put too much light on this we'll see through all the cracks.  
> Let's stay in the dark one more night.  
> Don't want to know I'm ok with the silence.  
> It's truth that I don't want to hear.
> 
> Don't want to believe in this ending  
> Let the cameras roll on,  
> Keep pretending  
> Tomorrow's all wrong if you walk away  
> Just stay


	4. The Song in the Tavern

_“ **Hawke** , for instance, is not weak.” Fenris had said to Anders long ago. Knowing her strength—your strength—if there’s a chance you’re out there, I’m not gonna stop until I know._

 

Hawke could have rejected Varric’s letter. She could have stayed away. He could have never told her, but a threat as big as Corypheus returning, and waging war on Thedas, she would have found out, and it’s best it came from him. After all, he was captured, interrogated, and spilled the beans. Maybe not all the beans. Not once has Hawke spoiled any of his tales with exuberant lies. She’s too good for him. Could be that strangely virtuous side of hers parallel to her sassy nature. How does she balance the two? He supposes a bit like how he does but with a smaller coin purse.

Varric finds the Inquisitor drunk at the tavern, although he summarizes she hasn’t been sober since the ball. He was going to buy a pint for Solas to soften him up before he metaphorically punches him in the gut, but the strangest thing just happened. Varric’s not hallucinating, is he? He didn’t just slam a keg solo then waltz in to see this hallucination. At the bar, sitting with Ms. Handglow, is the lithe bald man himself. Laughing.

Laughing. Resting beside his drink is a half-eaten cake.

Varric backs up through the door but—

Solas spots him trying to slip out backwards.

“Varric!” Solas shouts.

And Varric paces forward again, with a pained grin plastered on. The tavern stinks of booze leaking out of pores and soaking their clothes—the bard puts more wood on the fire, but Varric’s ready to toss the lute in after she starts playing a chipper tune about a merry band of misfits.

Cole must’ve slipped her some inspiring words.

 

_Perched high up in The Hanged Man’s tree_

_Is a hawk with a merry band of three_

_They mock and they joke and they laugh all while_

_The mages run amok on the bones they pile_

_The templars are astir but they stand like posts_

_Poking at the tree that the hawk loves most_

_But they won’t get far when they yell and plea_

_Cuz the hawk cares more for her band of three._

 

“Inquisitor,” Solas says, “Our dwarven brother-in-arms joins us.”

And just like that, Varric knew he was a dead man.

“Master Tethras,” Inquisitor turns on her stool, glowering. “You thought you could hide something like this from me?”

Solas shakes his head.

“Under the cover of darkness you and your secret clan are planning to venture out of Skyhold in pursuit of one Champion of Kirkwall. Without my knowledge.”

Without a thought, Varric puts his hands up in defense; Logan wobbles over and pokes his chest. Hard.

“How. Very. Dare. You.” She swills more ale and uses every ounce of focus to gingerly set the stein down. “And just before Solas’ birthday, too.”

Varric snorts. “What?”

Solas folds his arms. He’s smirking. The damned egghead is smirking.

“Which is why we must hurry! If we’re going to do this, it will be now!”

 

_Hey, Isabela, it’s the Arishok_

Did the hawk sell you out, oh no she’s not

Fenris took a while to warm-up to

He has aplenty booze for me and you

Sebastian needs to do us all a favor

And shut his holy hole and come back never

Merrill took a trip down Naïveté

Where the air’s too thin and she cracked her way

 

Varric notices the gathering behind him as spine-chills signal their presence. Logan holds onto Solas’ shoulder to step on both stools and balance herself. She shoots her hand up.

“The Champion of Kirkwall saved us at Adamant!” She shouts. “But I am told news of hope. News that Andraste protects her even now. We mustn’t waste this chance. She needs the Inquisition! She needs her friends, her family! She needs us!” Logan gestures to Varric.

The crowd erupts with cheers. Ale splashes the floor and steins clink in the air. Others pound the tables like drums of war. It’s not long before Cassandra stands beside Varric, breathing heavily.

“Inquisitor?” Cass says. “What is this?”

“A rescue mission!”

More cheers.

“But—”

“Don’t look at me,” Varric says.

“Inquisitor, there are more pressing matters. We need to prepare.”

“And we will.”

“We need you focused.”

Logan’s smile fluctuates from a scoff to wanting to cry. “Please.”

Cassandra sighs. Her signature move for giving up. “It is not my place to tell you what you must do, but I can advise alternatives.”

“Hawke is not an alternative,” Logan says flatly.

Varric watches the look in the Inquisitor’s staredown with the Seeker. A warmth tingles in the back of his ribs. He stuffs his hands in his pockets, making sure the box hasn’t fallen out.

“You are right,” Cass says. “We should have told you.”

“I think it’s a good idea to take Solas along,” Logan states. “He—uh—knows more about the Fade than anyone. Except for Cole, of course. Where is he? Anyway. I’m sure he’s going to, yes?”

“That is the plan,” Varric says.

“Great! You, me, Cassandra—”

One of Leliana’s agents trots up, holding a note, and Logan’s cheery surface melts into grimness. He whispers something in her ear.

“What!?” Logan snaps. “Why?”

“I am sorry, mademoiselle. He’s gone.”

He hands her the note but she crumples it up and tosses it into the fire. Cassandra sneers at it as it catches flame, reminded of last night’s failed throw.

Logan takes a few breaths before she rejoins the chat. “I will help you get there at least, but I have to take care of this thing.”

Cassandra notes, “It spares you the unpleasantries of the Fade, at least.”

“I think I’d take the Fade again.” She flashes a weak smile.

Logan leads the way out, Cassandra following close, but Varric and Solas linger behind. The crowd applauds and cheers them on, then the noise drowns with every swill of booze, and spitting laughter. Cole’s influence continues.

 

_Anders took account for mage’s hearts_

_She too should have blown you two apart_

_Aveline the ever steadfast truth_

_Took up arms but needed proof_

_Carver walked the shade but never left_

_The sun’s too bright; he stayed bereft_

_Varric listened to the tales he’d say_

_Never put his love up on display_

 

“You did that on purpose,” Varric says.

“Oh yes,” Solas says.

“I was gonna tell you what happened.”

“I knew you were, Varric. But when I heard it was my birthday, I couldn’t resist.”

“Wait.” He stops outside the door. “Are you going to tell her it isn't?”

“And ruin a good party? Absolutely not.”

“Why?”

Solas struts on, hands behind his back.

“For the frilly cakes.”

The way to the garden--to the Eluvian, is short, and simple. Logan's already up the stairs that Solas prepares to ascend. Varric looks down at his boots. This is it, the starting line of his race with twists of lies, and turns of phrases; all lies lead to the truth from here-out. All he has to do is take the first step and brace himself for retribution. And, hopefully, absolution.

Varric steps. The ground cricks underneath his sole. With another careful step, he walks, and follows Solas.

The tavern door slowly closes behind him with the song fading through the slit.

 

_Perched down low ‘neath The Hanged Man’s tree_

_Is a hawk nearly done unless she’s free_

_She breathes but she moans and she cries all while_

_Her friends leave her in the Fade and vile_

_They won’t get far unless they hear_

_The sweet melody passed through the tear_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song: [Perched](https://youtu.be/T8HCceGPQFM).


	5. The Fearlit Path

With practice, he’s sure he can tell the truth. Writing it down is easier, but saying it out loud—that’ll take effort. But after a few times it shouldn’t be so bad; it’ll be something less cliche than a piece of cake. Chunk of cheese. Sounds good. Now. Start small. One, tiny little lie. Here goes:

_I can’t really spin arrows between my fingers._

Great. Now all he has to do is say it. 

Out loud.

Varric stares up at the Eluvian in the room Morrigan took over. Sunlight blasts him in the eye from the windows, right before a cloud hides it. If only the sun knew he glares back. Dust particles float helplessly in the breaths among the master mages arguing—Logan, Dorian, Solas, Morrigan, and Vivienne. Cullen enters with Josephine and Leliana. Guards march in formation and line the walls with shields, spears, and swords. Their clanking armor irritates Varric’s ears. Even the musty plumes from everyone kicking up generations of dust screeches in the air.

Far into the dead surface of the mirror, he sees the impossible stretch of road—a web of infinite roads leading everywhere but to where he wants to go. If the spider’s there, it could put him out of his misery. Bad idea. Hawke’s father’s with the dead. How could he talk to him about his daughter if he jumped ship too soon? What would her mother think? Would Carver piss on his burnt remains if he ever found the body? He seems like a piss-on kinda guy. Then again, if he died in the Eluvian, a demon would possess his body.

Heat rises to his face but sickness drains the color. He swallows. His throat is dry. Scratchy. If he talked, they’ll know. Know that he has second thoughts. Know that he’s got frog feet—cold feet. The term is cold feet. Why cold when they’re burning up in his clunky boots? He wiggles his toes but it fans the fire in his socks. 

Varric adjusts his gloves where the stitching dips between his fingers. If he doesn’t do this before a fight, sport, or other big events (killing giants included), after a while, the gloves shift along his skin, and chafe after a few skirmishes.

One time he had to bandage both hands after they fought the Hinterlands dragon because he sweated so bad the leather rubbed and gave him a nasty rash. 

Hey! He told another truth!

Crap. Still wasn’t out loud.

Mages have it easy. But their egos balance the physical pains.

Speaking of loud. And mages.

Morrigan snips, “T’would benefit the Inquisition more if it would cease wasting time and go after Corypheus instead of wallowing on choices once made.”

Ah this again. Not exactly ringing with good news. 

Varric’s good news is he stitched in more pockets for his jacket the other day, before this entire mess with the Fade and Wardens happened. He can put extra secret stuff, like grenades, flasks, clips of arrows, his travel journal, and a tiny box. 

Bad news?

There’s no bad news. Only worse news. And the worse news is he knows Logan’s going to get that mirror open. He’s going to jump and enter the Fade, whether he’s flailing while Cassandra throws him in, or calmly strolls through. And then, because he knows that’s not the worst of it. The worst-worst of it will be charging through the massive amounts of Fearlings if that Fear Demon is still alive. The worst-worst-worst? 

He’d rather go back to practicing telling the truth out loud.

Varric pats down his good news and double checks—all right, quadruple checks—his inventory. Ever since Logan had announced the team to bug out, he can’t stop his hands from dancing. Not enough time to prepare. Not this time. Not when Solas’ party is at stake.

Does Solas like mutton or should Josephine stick with appetizers? Better leave that to Dorian.

Should he tell him now or later that Solas knows? The lie came full circle, didn’t it? Ugh. He’s a horrible person. Why do people keep him around? 

Ah crap, they’re standing statuesque and mage-y now. Logan stares at him.

Shit.

Box? Check. Grenades? Check. Sanity?

…Sanity?

Varric rubs his chest at the turn of his heart’s pace elevating the temperature in the room. He’d leave his jacket on his chair, but somehow leather has armor rating. It also holds his stealth pellets. Too bad he can’t use them now. If they’re still in his pocket.

Better check again.

“I’m quite fond of this mirror, Inquisitor,” Morrigan says. “All consequences in its use are yours.”

“Thank you,” Logan says without taking eyes of Varric.

Solas informs, “The power to open directly to the Fade will attract undesired attention. We must be vigilant.”

Their discussion staggers through the sunlight breaking through the changing clouds. Before the last ray disappears, Varric glances up, and sees clouds once white now gray. Rain approaches. Cullen’s bed might get soaked, but would that be more or less fun for Logan? They seem happy together, though Varric has his doubts. Cullen, who’s standing with his men, watching the staff-wielders cluck over who’s the rooster now, always seems stoic. Apathetic that the Inquisitor is his lover. Is it his job to have that stick up his ass despite being merrily in love or is that what being in a relationship is about? Not showing how you feel on the outside and letting the truth scream inside you until it’s too late to go back.

“Are you ready?”

Huh?

Cassandra watches him. She rests her hands on her hips. Her brow flickers.

Varric blurts out, “Did I ever tell you the time how I met H—ke?” He winces and massages his throat.

Cassandra checks the mages—they’re gathering their knowledge how to best the Eluvian.

Cole materializes next to him. 

“Cole,” Cassandra orders, “do something. Varric’s delirious.”

“If I weave more words into his song, he’ll drown.”

The three exchange various looks, but none as intimidating as the infamous Seeker Sneer. Before she gets her hands on Varric, Cullen interrupts as the room slowly glows blue and white. The mages have surrounded the Eluvian in a crescent; they charge their powers together while Solas calls out instructions among them.

Cullen talks over the growing noise.

As if the room isn’t loud enough already.

“Seeker Pentaghast, we have watchstanders all forty-eight hours. Be sure you get back in time. I’d hate to see what the Inquisitor would do if the guest of honor was late.”

“Forty-eight hours? That’s absurd. What if he dies?”

“Don’t bury him until she can give him a good wallop.”

She looks at Varric, but sees Cullen nodding toward Solas. 

“I can’t believe you’re serious.”

“Mostly serious. I might have enjoyed the Game a little more than I admit, but that doesn’t part me from my duties to serve. If the Inquisitor wishes this, I make sure her wishes are guarded, no matter what. We’re prepared for whatever might come out of there, even if it takes you longer.”

”Thank you, commander. Finally, some sense.”

“This is for Hawke. Whatever she needs. Whatever Varric needs. I may not have been there for her as I wanted—she saved a lot of people in the wake of the Kirkwall Rebellions. Someone like that is worth trying for.”

Words sting Varric’s eyes.

Did he put the pellets in his left bottom pocket or the right-middle?

“What about you?” Cullen inquires.

Varric looks up.

“Are you ready for this?”

The magic rises into a wave and seeps into the mirror’s chipped gild. He hears Solas say, “Use the mark! Now!”

Varric clears his throat. “Shove me through and I won’t have a choice.”

Cassandra commands, “You must do this! There’s no turning back now.”

He shakes his head. “This is nuts!”

“Love’s that way.”

Varric’s insides sizzle and he swears he hears his heart plunk into his stomach.

The Eluvian bursts alive with bright green. The mages don’t stop pouring themselves into the mess of light.

“Stand fast!” Cullen shouts.

Cassandra brandishes her sword.

“This is it,” she says.

Varric pops Bianca awake.

Bianca.

Shouldn’t think on that either. 

Logan cries out as she pulls something heavy from the mirror. With a clenched fist, she tosses an invisible boulder—that’s what he believes—and the Eluvian’s door peels back in ripples along the flat surface. It bursts—

Varric’s reflection looks back at him—wrinkles around his eyes, cheeks not as full as they were, and the scars; the spots too. In a blink, Varric sees ten years of chances he never took, truths he spun, confessions he fed to the fire, and not once did Hawke ask, or mention it. Why did she never say anything? Why didn’t he? He tried. He tried to warn her. Then disaster struck. It didn’t feel right. No time ever felt right. And then…

Ten years later. Ten. That makes Hawke at least 35 (but if anyone asks, he’ll say she’s 22). And that makes him—

The Eluvian devours his reflection and impressions of green flicker through.

The Fade.

Without thinking, without feeling, Varric hooks Bianca back, and spins around to break through the crowd—

Tug.

Someone grips his arm and it can only be Cassandra’s because no one can cut off circulation to his hand like she can.

“No you don’t!” she says.

“This is stupid!” Varric tries to get his arm back—fails.

“Why?”

“Because!”

“Why!?”

“Dammit, Seeker, let go!”

“You’re such a child!”

“Ha! I’m a geezer. Why would Hawke want anything to do with me now?”

“Is that what this is about? No. No you don’t. Come on!”

Solas shouts, “Which is it, dwarf? Save Hawke or leave her forever? I am not opening this again!”

Logan adds, “Doors are two-ways! Hurry up before demons get a clue!”

Shit on all of this.

“We don’t even know where she is!” Varric shouts back.

Cole calms the storm and points beyond the stained glass windows.

“She’s right there,” he says.

Varric freezes. Heart catapults from stomach to throat.

He locks eyes into the mirror, into the Fade, where every demon could be looking back at him, wanting.

Solas says, “Can you see the Champion?”

“Yes,” Cole says.

“Where?”

“Perched down low ‘neath The Hanged Man’s tree.”

Hawke.

Varric rips Cassandra’s grip off him and barges up to the mirror.

He arms his crossbow.

He inhales-- 

“I can't spin arrows around my fingers.”

\--and jumps through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: "Storm is Coming (Extended Version)" from Mad Max soundtrack by Junkie XL
> 
> Rushed this chapter. I apologize. Emotional inner drama scenes are difficult and I probably killed some consistency and added redundancy, but you are getting the first draft of my work. This means you get to see future revisions when the entire fic is done! Yay you!


	6. On the Other Side

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Action Song: "Brothers in Arms (Extended Version)" by Junkie XL. Mad Max: Fury Road soundtrack

All Marian had to eat the day of her mother's funeral was whatever Bodahn left in the pot from last night. After the years under her service, he must have learned that all he had to do to make her day was cook Mother's beet soup. Well, he tried last night when they got back from the funeral, but when he lit the flames, she didn't smell beets boiling.

It's a smell no one forgets. A sickly sweet aroma with that hint of char. Only the smoke wafting in her face from the breeze coming off the water made it bearable. Embers of cloth ascended the sky—wisps carrying Mother's soul back to the Maker. It was beautiful; quiet apart from the crackling. It was nothing like the fires she would see from the Chantry. Or the screams she'd hear.

"You really are your mother's daughter," Gamlen had said about her shacking up with Anders. 

Ah but that kind of dreary nostalgia is going to kill her faster because it's exactly what Varric warned her about. Gotta look on the brighter side of things. The green grass and that nonsense. Once she might have had something snarky to say. Every problem she faced she solved it with a joke. It worked for a while. But you can't bring people back from the dead with a punchline. You can't bring anybody back from anything, not even their choices. 

And from the look of where she's at, coming back from the dead is a curse worse than the Blight. She can't feel her body, if she still has one. Every angle she looks appears underwater, but she hasn't drowned. Something dark approaches in the distance. The shadow wavers in the green waves but gains size. Just as it stops, it looks up, but she can't make out a face.

"Thank Andraste," Hawke says. "Death pities me."

Ripples of white surround Varric, puppeting sunlight underwater that dance in streams through an infinite space of colorlessness. It could be a dream, with his body suspended as it is, but when he touches his coat, he feels the pressure of the fabric, and he knows he's real. Varric reaches for a ripple; it wraps itself around his glove like a squirrel racing along a tree trunk, then leaps off. Another ripple slithers up and down his arm, then falls off his shoulder. He recalls looking out from the coast during the highest sun, shielding his eyes from the brightest reflections dancing across the water. It's like he stepped into the sparkles and floated through their prismatic charm. But nothing here smells like salt and sand, only the chill of glass, if glass had a smell, or a chill.

A gleam pierces through the ever-white. He squints at it; could be anything. He's never stayed long in whatever this is; wherever, more like. The gleam grows, breaking through what he already thinks is bright enough, but obviously mistaken. The gleam isn't growing, it's gaining. Something cries out. Varric hears the click of the gears before he realizes he primed a bolt. 

He aims.

Nothing to aim at.

Something hits him on his back and he stumbles forward, floating at the mercy of the mirror. Varric tries to spin around but when he catches a glimpse of a thin man, his insides tug, and pressure all around pulls him through a tunnel of blurs. White becomes green, green becomes a calamity of roars and screeches—

Varric face-plants into damp, blackened dirt that can only belong to the Fade. Prickles shoot up his spine. He breathes in and braves the sight ahead.

A horde of demon backs and tails stare back at him. Oblivious for now, Varric inches to stand. He can't see much except where the mirror led him is a span of death surrounded by mountains too steep to climb, and an ocean of water too far to swim. Several Pride demons hide the horizon; he'll have to get through them, or climb on them to get a better look.

The Eluvian hums. Feet shift over dirt behind him. He turns—Cassandra, Solas, and Cole stand with weapons drawn and eyes wide. The light from the mirror whirrs and crackles, breaking rays across the bodies of demons. Dread stifles the group and freezes them in place.

Demons moan out of curiosity. With a collective turn, the horde's heads stare at the lone Eluvian, open, and swirling. They march toward it with nothing standing in their way.

The team sneak around behind a mass of rock under the cloak Cole cast on them, watching the advance.

"Skyhold!" Cassandra hisses. "Without that Eluvian closed, they don't stand a chance."

"We can't let them pass," Solas says.

"They won't," Varric says. "Duck."

"Where?" Cole asks.

BOOM!

A trap explodes and sends parts of demons soaring with bits of entrails that land and set off the rest of the traps.

Boom-boom-boom!

Shards of mirror shoot through the air as deadly as Varric's crossbow.

"Genius," Solas marks. "Our way out is obliterated."

"So's half the horde. Here." Varric reaches into his pocket and pulls out a ring. "This is important."

Solas nods. 

"Do not lose it." He hands it over. "Wear it cuz we're not alone out here."

Solas puts it on. "I take it you saw something."

"Someone. In the Eluvian."

"How is that? When I went through I just came here."

"As did I," Cassandra says.

Cole peeps over the rock. "I hope the duck's all right."

"Time's up," Varric says, steadying Bianca. "Now the horde's manageable. Let's clear 'em out."

"Manageable?" Cass snaps. "This is a nightmare."

"You have three people who can travel in stealth now, Seeker. All you have to do is stand there and intimidate them."

"That's your plan?"

"You said you'd help."

Cass presses her lips together, resisting an audible urge.

Varric grins.

"Ugh!"

She adjusts her shield and hugs the rock wall until she spots the remaining demons. Prides, terrors, sloths, and dozens of wraiths, and shades gather around the fallout. Despair may be hiding. Varric knows she's gathering her own strategy, which should work well enough with his. He beckons Cole one way, and orders Solas another.

As Solas walks, energy collects around him—particles Varric knows that mimic the world around them in order to mask what ever they link to. In this case, who ever wears the ring. Varric's bombs and grenades carry similar energy, crafted by his trusted sellers. One of which he helped escape Kirkwall to maintain his rogue line that borders a mischievous mage. He didn't get the ring from him, though. Just the basics. Grenades, tonics, pellets, etc.. Enough to make him intolerable in a fight.

Every time during the quiet heaviness of foreboding violence, his blood throbs in his fingers and toes. To calm the ache of adrenaline, he hums to the beat of the pulse, and the notes become footsteps as he drops a pellet. He strokes the spine of Bianca then aims her downward until he finds the perfect nest. He races by Cassandra and taps her back to make himself known, then moves on, breaking the middle of the demons, toward a hill even a short-legged scoundrel could climb. He sets up, his pulse steadily rising, but he takes breaths through his stomach, then the chest, and exhales. He peeps along Bianca's sight, checks her arrow track, and finds center mass on the demons that have finally noticed the lone human approaching them. 

Varric mutters, "That's right, Seeker. Line 'em up for me."

He digs the stock into his shoulder; it's gonna be a power shot, one he can't miss with Cassandra also in his line of sight. She's blessed she's tiny compared to the Prides priming their attack. Two on one; not a fair fight—for the demons. Before they blind Varric from her, she lifts her shield and smacks the front with her sword.

"Let's go, you brutes!" Cassandra shouts.

Was she talking to the demons, or...?

Varric smirks, lowers the unmanned shoulder, exhales all the way, and once the Prides are about to swing, Cole makes his mark, Solas overwhelms them with a burst dampening their armor, and Varric squeezes the trigger.

It sings. The arrow flies, spiraling, catching pieces of the Fade, and gathering its power at the tip, then pierces the first demon below the shoulder blade, and explodes out to strike the second where a kidney would be. 

By the time he fired, Varric already cocked in another arrow. Stealth doesn't last long. He looks around to see if anything's caught on to him but he's safe. Solas, though...

Terrors sink below the surface. Varric throws a plethora of grenades. Metal snowballs of death. Solas vanishes with the ring and runs where Cole might be. Hard to tell where his green begins when everything around here is the same dismal shade.

Cassandra keeps up with the hope that her rogue team is doing its job. If he can't see her, she can't see them. Hope is all she has.

Cole jumps to Solas when a Terror knocks him down, after grenades explode, and the demon screeches in pain. Cole dances around, shanking anything looking soft. If he could jump high enough, Varric would say go for the eyes. Cole stabs two blades into its hips, and the demon falls. Or that. That works.

With all the wraiths gone, Varric stays high and makes every other demon wish they had a Varric on their team.

Don't think that, Varric. Demons might read thoughts and take up a cause.

Solas pulls in a few Shades that sprung up around him, vanishes, then reappears along the perimeter of the field, and punches a spell down before disappearing again. He flashes across Varric's vision, casting the blue shield over Cassandra at set intervals. He must be counting in his head or he sees, maybe hears, something a non-mage can't. 

But Varric's perspective is technical in a different sort. 

Prime. Aim. Exhale. Fire. 

Shmmp. 

Boom.

Some shots have little kickback, but if he wants to bring a beast down, the recoil pad is his best investment. And the quiver secured to the barrel for auto-priming. The girl who made her certainly wanted to keep him alive in fights like this. But he sees it as the best way to keep others alive.

He fires another arrow—it knocks back a Terror. More Shades appear, this time moving toward the hill. His hill. Varric stealths and abandons the nest. Along the way, he drops traps, and delights in the wind from the explosions behind him. Cassandra has been moving backward along the field—she closes in on a narrow passageway so they can't flank her, and keep demons in one tunnel while Cole dances and drops them one by one. He's downed the first two Prides, but another comes. Solas can't keep weakening and fending off Terrors forever. Varric plugs several arrows into their backs, then runs around them landing any trap he can to knock the Terrors on the ass. Once they're up again, Solas freezes them, and it gives everyone space to down the last Pride.

"I can't do this all day, dwarf!" Cassandra croaks.

Blue light detonates and spreads a ring over the field, tearing at the demons' skin.

"Just keep backing up that path!" Varric calls back. "And stay small!"

"Excuse me!?"

Cole gets it somehow and remains by Cassandra, poking away.

Solas runs to Varric. "It won't work."

"Of course it'll work," Varric says. "The big ones can't fit through there."

"What about you?"

"Fish in a barrel. And a shit ton of dynamite. Now get over to Seeker and cast your barrier. I dunno how big this'll be."

"Is this one of your prude jokes?"

"No." Varric laughs. "But now I think it will be. Thanks, Chuckles."

A faint shimmer of Solas runs around the remaining horde and blue refreshes over the team.

"What is he doing?" Cassandra snaps. "Varric! You better not blow yourself up!"

Varric hooks together several grenades and a very specific rune he kept in a very hidden pocket for just-in-cases. The arrow's heavy; can't use Bianca for this. But he needs all the gadgets trapped in one spot. Last time he saw a crazy move like this, Hawke was fantasizing about it while standing on a table at the Hanged Man. She said "but it would be so cool!" after he told her it was impossible and so dangerous no one could survive it.

Time to test reality.

He runs into the center of the tunnel, stabs the clustered bomb in the last Pride's foot, and sets it off. Blue and white cast over him. He sprints for the tunnel. Cassandra shouts and shoves Cole and Solas back.

"Hurry!"

Her voice dies in the blast. Heat sears all around. A hard beat punches Varric's body and he soars. Rocks and demon parts pelt him as he falls ahead of the team. Cass stops herself from stepping on him and snatches him up before he can check if his ears are bleeding. 

"There!" Cass' voice underwater amidst the siren's screaming in his head.

He inhales and his head swells with hot liquid. Varric hisses and grits his teeth. He'd lift his arm but someone dipped it in molten and left it to harden.

Varric tries to look up—smoke and fire chase them. Solas pulls down loose boulders to block more of the blast, but the fire—Varric hadn't anticipated so many flames.

Cassandra drops him behind a wall, next to a puddle where he can stare at himself, because the way she left him is the only position he can stay in without feeling the lava in his brain again. The smoke smells rancid. Maker, it's in his coat. He holds in the vomit.

"Move!" the stranger yells.

Varric tries to look, but only his eyes cooperate. He catches narrow boots with a dozen buckles run by, splashing the puddle, and Varric.

Tevinter boots.

Varric tries to grab Bianca but every limb is lead. He falls forward into the puddle, to turn, and see around the wall where the man went. His cloak follows him like a cape. He holds a staff. A spectrum erupts from the man and molds into an invisible bubble just as the blast hits, towering over them like a monstrous orb holding a storm. The smoke and flames swirl and eat themselves away as the bubble shrinks, and pops into a spark, and dies.

"Are you hurt?" the stranger asks Cassandra.

"No, but the dwarf—"

"—thought to bring the entire Fade down on him? It nearly worked."

Solas chimes in, "We're from the Inquisition. And you are?"

"Not from the Inquisition."

The stranger kneels by mentioned dwarf and pops open two potions, one smells like lemon, and the other a warm beer. He feeds the red, lemon-smelling one—tastes horrifically like medicine—until Varric finishes, then hands him the beer one, and stands.

Waves of relief coast inside—a chilling stream throughout the agony numbs everything, and what is bruised, broken, or bleeding fades. The blast never happened, just maybe a minor hangover. A dizzy spell hits him as he stands, but other than the world teetering, he'll manage.

A pressure hugs his arm. He sees green swirls, then Cole appears.

"You're alive," Cole says. "You were so close to death it almost kissed you."

She might've.

"Where's Hawke?"

"Not far."

Cole points to a tree over a span of jagged cliffs zig-zagging through the haze. A warmth scurries around his ribs. Coles senses it.

"You're going to make it, Varric." He smiles.

Smile sharply turns when Cole spins to defend himself, but bright green strikes and he flashes into ethereal form, shooting outward, and breaching a dimensional wall that eats him whole.

"Kid!"

They shout for Cole, chasing after the ghost stream he left behind. All except the stranger—his staff aims at the sky. Varric pats the pressure loss around his arm—the sudden vacancy of Cole's presence drops the warmth once rising in his chest. He walks up to the stranger and reaches his fist back—

Cassandra tackles him and shoves him into Solas, who jails him behind his staff.

"You killed him!" Cassandra roars.

Immediately another protective orb pops up.

"I didn't! I swear! I'm sorry, I thought he was another demon."

"That was a spirit of Compassion," Solas' voice booms over Varric's head. "And you attacked him."

"Spirit?" He drops the spell. "Look, I didn't know he was on your side. It's—he's alive. I sent him away."

"Where?"

"I don't know, but if he's a good spirit, he will find a way back to you eventually, right?"

Solas shakes his head.

"Let me help. I can fix this."

Cassandra points her sword at his neck. "Who are you?"

He sighs and pulls back his hood. He's pale everywhere, even his eyes, with a goatee, pierced ears, and a ponytail to keep his horse mane in check. He's worn under the eyes and old enough to open a tab, but young enough to be scolded by his mother if he doesn't write her daily. 

"My name is Feynriel," he says. "And I'm looking for someone."


	7. Hawking Tokens

"My partner is missing," Feynriel says.

Varric's leather creaks when he balls up his fists. Stomping the Tevinter's nose into splinters would relieve the ache he feels in the back of his neck, but wouldn't save his end goal. Instead, Varric pretends his fist already met Feynriel's face.

"Good luck," Varric says. "You just ousted our roadmap."

"All the more reason not to separate."

"I count several reasons to leave you under a rock."

Varric examines his splashed coat; it's not as soaked through as the many times he explored the Storm Coast involuntarily. 

"Not many with good intentions travel the Fade," Solas says. "Who exactly are you?"

"Establish trust. Okay. I'm a Dreamer, tasked with urgent business."

"A Dreamer?" Solas exclaims. "A rare gift. It makes sense how you travel so freely, though Dreamers usually dream through the Fade, not venture in person."

"No, I wouldn't be here in person if my business was as urgent as I say. During my travels, I got thrown off course, with my partner nowhere to be seen."

"Will your partner be all right?" Cassandra asks.

"I don't know. I must find him quickly, or I'm afraid he'll be stuck here forever without my help."

"We'll be stuck here forever because of your help," Solas snaps.

"Thanks, but no thanks, Feynriel," Varric says.

"We must press on, Varric," Cassandra says. "Idleness begets failure."

"Varric?" Feynriel says, looking him over. "You. You were with the Champion of Kirkwall." He gasps. "That's why you're here! Thank the Maker!"

"You know about Hawke?" Cassandra asks.

"I smell a deal," Varric says.

"A repair," Feynriel offers. "I told you I can fix this and I will. You want to save Hawke. All of Thedas knows the Inquisitor left her here. My urgent business might relate to that."

"Tell me, Precious, were you going to inform us before or after that other people are searching for Hawke?"

"Not everyone is. Just us, so far. But I don't think everyone will be able to find her, or is allowed to."

"What do you mean?"

"I stumbled across something. Something not meant for me. Now that I've met you, I know why."

Solas cuts in. "A piece of the Fade meant specifically for Varric?"

"You have to see it to believe it."

"I have to believe you first," Varric says.

"Faith comes before belief," Cassandra says. "Varric, I am with you which ever you decide. But I think we should take the chance. If it goes wrong, we'll deal with it. Anything's easier than the horde of demons."

"Solas?" Varric says.

"Who am I to judge how the Veil works? This Vint obviously knows something I don't."

"I'm a Kirkwaller first."

"Ah. See?"

Varric takes in the view; nothing short of that empty feeling when you're lost, wet, and sore with the euphoria after a drawn-out migraine. Even the green in the air makes him ache. He eyes the tree peeking over the ridges of obstacles. 

Come on, Varric, take a chance, he can hear Hawke say. A taste is better than starving.

But if it tastes good, there's no stopping his gorging. 

He looks Feynriel in the eyes. "Show me."

Walking toward the tree is promising. Not many demons along this path as Feynriel claims he took care of them all on his way here. He said he would've kept walking toward the tree, but when he heard the commotion Varric made, he had to see. The backtrack leads them to another mirror. Feynriel unlocks it and motions the group through.

"This friend of yours..." Varric hesitates walking in.

"Partner. Haven't known him long enough to be acquainted."

"He got a name?"

"He wouldn't say. He wanted me for my skills. That's all."

"So you've seen him, since you're both stuck down here. What does he look like?"

"Why—okay, okay. He's—uh—blond, I guess? Wields magic more powerful than any Dalish or Vint I've met."

"A blond mage." Varric mutters. "They've been popping up like weeds today."

"The sooner we find him the closer we get to Hawke." He sways his arms toward the Eluvian again, more insistent.

"I'll go," Cassandra saves him. "Wouldn't want you to detonate on the other side."

"You're a peach, Seeker."

"Nothing bad on the other side, I swear," Feynriel says.

"But...?" Varric says.

"You might have to get wet again."

For good measure, Varric and Solas vanish, and pass through the mirror, matching the silvery surface that tugs, and slips them into the other side.

Varric's lungs dip into his stomach and spring back. He's in the tropics, mostly. The Fade weaves itself through the landscape—eerie purple palm trees and pools of green water darkened by the lack of sky. The pools encircle a larger pool—a moat guarding a pedestal and a bag stuffed with unknowns. And on the other side of the pools is an inactive Eluvian. 

But Varric seeks the tree, undistracted by his purpose—it's a twig compared to where they were. Heat boils his cheeks. He rubs his forehead, holding in every urge to strangle Feynriel.

"I don't know about you, Precious, but I think we're going in the opposite way I need to be."

"Please, Varric. Just trust me. I know this looks bad—"

"This is why I don't bother! With any of it! I can't deal with shit like this!"

"Varric! Hawke saved me from the Templars. It's why I took on this job! I really think this room leads us closer to her!"

"Or leads us into a trap," Solas says. "For all we know, you could be a demon, just like you thought Cole was a demon."

"I'm not! Oh, Maker, please."

"I know you're not," Solas assures. "But I don't know you."

"Solas," Cassandra says, "What can you tell us about this area?"

"Nothing. Never have I seen this anywhere in the Fade. It could be a trick or, if what Feynriel claims is true, it could be a key to finding the Champion, though who ever made this must have been powerful, and desperate."

"I don't think a Dreamer did this," Feynriel says. "Maybe a demon—er—spirit."

"If only Cole was here," Solas says, glaring at a nearby pool.

Varric steps up to the water and crosses his arms. That feeling when you're trying to remember something and it tickles your hairline but you can't think of it barrages him until he scrunches his face, and kicks a pebble into the pool.

A warm breeze kisses Varric's face. Citrus and alcohol tease his senses, then a giant star bursts in his head; he remembers.

"Tide pools," he exclaims.

Cassandra, who was inspecting the plantlife (secretly caressing a pink flower), springs to attention.

"Does that mean anything to you?" she asks, as if it would hide what she was doing.

"Yes, but I wouldn't know where to start."

"We mark the theory correct, then," Solas says. "This place is meant for your understanding."

"Don't jump on the catapult yet."

If he can find a way to open the next mirror, then Solas can hop in, and ride the launch straight to the tree. Hopefully not in that fashion, but just as fast. Varric leaps for the pedestal and lands in the space between pools, a sliver of Fade rock. His boot slips into the water and reactively glows a bright teal. Solas pokes the pool next to his with his staff; it lights up, then both fade to normal.

"There must be an order to this key," Solas notes.

Varric's intuitive nature goes for the bag. He snatches it up and lies it on the pedestal, seeking the contents under the flap. He places each object linearly, then observes the whole. Eight tokens each with unique symbols stare back at him—a tattooed skull, a ship, the Warden, Chantry, and Templar emblems, a shield, a flower, and a quill with an open book.

"Are those coins?" Feynriel asks.

Varric smiles. "Wanna make a wish?" He gathers the tokens in his hand and stands on the pedestal to see all the pools. Each one is slightly different from its neighbors but all encompass the moat like petals on a flower. Thinking on it, he plucks the flower token and examines it.

"Any of these pools look familiar, Seeker?"

"Me? Why would I know anything?"

"You heard the story. These tokens represent Hawke's friends. And I'm betting we toss them into the water to unlock the mirror. So, Seeker, got any clues?"

"They're puddles, Varric. There's nothing personified about them."

Varric shrugs and tosses the Flower token in. The pool glows then quickly fades.

"Not that one, I guess. Precious, can ya hand me that back?"

Feynriel sighs. "The Precious name is sticking, isn't it?"

"Like tar." Varric grins and holds out his hand.

The Vint forages through the pool then hands over his find. Varric takes in each pool, but Solas mentioned an order. That could be it but what order? And most of these pools look the same except a couple. One is split in half by a rock protrusion, and another is almost dried up. The largest pool has a mane of grass, but nothing truly represents the Hawke's companions. Minutes draw out into miles of nowhere. Cassandra has now plucked the flower and twirls it between her gauntlets. Solas stands on one foot with his other pressing into his thigh and rests on his staff, humming to himself. Feynriel just walked the perimeter for the sixth time. 

"Solas," Cassandra starts, "at least share with us what's playing in your head."

"I don't think anyone would appreciate my singing, Seeker," Solas says. "Besides, Varric needs to concentrate."

"I don't mind a little background music, Chuckles. It might help."

"If it is not obstructive..."

And Solas begins the song that shoots chills through Varric. Solas spent a while in the Skyhold tavern with the Inquisitor before Varric managed to get there. 

"Solas," Varric says. "Did you memorize that song?"

"Difficult not to, since the bard insisted on playing it until you arrived. Honestly I was going to pay her not to play again, but it made Cole happy to hear her."

"You—Cole..." Varric stares at the tokens, gaping. Revelation soars through him, recharging his nerves, and igniting his blood.

"It's the song! The song! Who is the first she sung about?"

Solas jumps to both feet and staff. "Isabela!"

Cassandra drops her flower and joins Solas' side.

Varric takes the ship token—eight tokens, eight pools—faces the Eluvian and the pool just before it, and tosses it in. The pool lights up.

"Fenris," Solas leads.

The skull token goes next into the adjacent pool. Water lights up and nobody is left frowning. Varric moves clockwise and listens to Solas.

"Sebastian."

He tosses the Chantry token.

"Merrill,"—the flower (a daisy) token—"Anders," —the Warden—"Aveline,"—the shield—"Carver,"—the Templar, "and you."

Varric eyes the front of his own wooden coin. A book, not Bianca; a quill, not a crossbow; his stories, not his dirty deeds. Is this how Hawke sees him? Is this how she sees her friends? In any way, Hawke, or someone helping him get to Hawke, has left convincing bread crumbs meant only for her closest allies. Someone who knows her throughout, and less importantly, knows him.

"Andraste's mercy," Varric whispers.

He tosses the token into the last pool and the Eluvian shines brightly against the violet room. The team approaches the mirror. A wave of relief washes over them all and leaves the aftertaste of dread for what may come next. 

Cassandra pats Varric's shoulder. "For you, maybe belief comes first." 

She smiles, then takes up her shield before disappearing into the rippling blurs of the beyond. Solas follows. Feynriel lingers, leeching for approval.

"Can you trust me now?" Feynriel asks.

"As far as I can toss me," he answers.

The Vint responds how he expected.

"Look, Precious, I don't know how you think we're going to find your partner passed these puzzles if I'm the only one who can open them, and I'm the only way we can get to Hawke. If I can be honest, which is rare, I feel more used than when Isabela ogles me. Let it be and let me deal with my inner turmoil."

"I understand."

"No, you don't. Because the person you really have to convince is Solas. And right now, he's the one keeping you at arms-length. Not me."

"I did nothing to him. I only—"

"That nothing you did will turn his head hard-boiled if you can't make it up to him before we leave the Fade. He may just leave you here to rot if we fail."

Feynriel adjusts the belt on his robes. "Then we won't fail."

"Varric!" Cassandra reappears. "Varric! You have to see this!"

"What is it?"

But before she even hears the question she disappears again and he's forced to step through, after the Tevinter mage, of course.


	8. The Stone and the Memory

_Dragon 9:35_

_"Heart in Hightown?" Hawke had offered me when we walked through the Wounded Coast toward her favorite beach._

_They hadn't left any essentials behind. If they were going to stay the day, Hawke needed all the toys and provisions to keep her entertained, full, and happy, including her new mage staff procured from the last batch of bandits we countervailed. And that was just five minutes ago._

_Although I couldn't find any viable reason to enjoy a jagged rock mound surrounding more jagged rocks ground into sand that breached my boots any time I even looked at it. Not a building or person in sight and yet Hawke's glowing energy makes it worth the professional cleaning that'll rob my spending money, and make me owe two favors from Lowtown. At least she prefers to carry her own luggage or I'd have to compare myself to a pack mule._

_"Are you trying to ruin my reputation? That sounds like a romance novel."_

_"Some people like those."_

_"I don't think it has the same tone for the grizzled guardsmen I had in mind.."_

_She pulled her hammock from the satchel—her usual setup already screwed into two palm trees. Surprisingly nobody has tried to steal the hooks. Maybe others use it too...or she placed wards. She's devious that way._

_"Worth a go. I might have read it using that title."_

_"Oh don't bait me, you're horrible at fishing."_

_She winked at me. The wink that took down the Arishok a year ago. She would use it on me when she knew she couldn't have the last say. As always, it did exactly what she wanted._

_I shiver in the dry heat. Her eyes ice cubes on my skin as she glances back from her bare shoulder. Her muscles twitch as she latches the second hook._

_"Your throne, Master Tethras." She begins to stroll away._

_Hawke wears a sleeveless white top and loose red pants because she won't be caught enjoying any day in a dress. It's good she didn't wind up in the Circle because even Templars wear skirts._

_"Where are you off to?" I said, happy to slide onto the canvas to be further from the sand._

_She turns back and almost catches him staring at her hips. Red draws the eye, you know._

_"Deep beach exploration," she grins._

_"You're not swimming this time?"_

_I wonder what exactly she brought to swim in. If the band across her chest acting like a bra is part of it, I might object this beach expedition._

_"I can do that later."_

_"Which way you think is best?" I ask. "To the left, we have the livacious dunes of dismay, and to the right the bastion of betrayal and sharp, pointy things."_

_"Your optimism grants me so many tempting choices."_

_"It's a gift."_

_"Choices?"_

_That day she chose sharp, pointy things and found a cave carved from ages of rough waves. Inevitably, she made me rescrew the hammock into the caveside. Luckily my lock set included repair tools, but no sand repellant, or a suppressant for the secret joy I had letting Hawke take a vacation from her troubles, especially after all she had done for Kirkwall, and Kirkwall not once gave her a day of rest._

_As the sky turns orange, Hawke strolls back into the cave when I place my thumb in the middle of chapter 31 and look up. She orders me to scoot over, but when I shift, she jumps in without giving me enough time, and the hammock squeezes us together. I accidentally drop Adventures of the Black Fox when my arm bounces against hers. I could have left my tunic on but she was gone for hours and I suffered reading in the heat wafting in midday. She’s chilled from the sea breeze—her skin rests against mine and gathers warmth. She rubs her feet, pink from overuse, sandy from her long stroll. Tide water crawls into the cave; not enough to make us nervous. Crevices in the floor fill for the sea life we don’t notice until the sun disappears. Orange falls to rich rose, then dark blue. Hawke dangles her feet over the side, leaning forward to not miss a change of nature’s brush. The pools around us illuminate into a glittering teal, bouncing light throughout the cave, and dancing across her body. Its shine can’t compete with that smile, or the look she gives me when she turns, and says nothing._

Varric pales when he catches Solas in mid-conversation with Cassandra.

"It appears to be a piece of Hawke."

But he sees them inspecting faint glowing stones and blood courses back to his cheeks.

The three surround the stone suspended in a spout of active magic. Surrounding them is a hexagonal room, structured by linked Eluvians, each inactive, and each more intimidating than the first, because the growing burn of knowing these steps to get to her are because of her, and more likely made by her. She was honest, but not straight-forward. If she was, maybe their story would have started at the beginning. 

If he was...

Varric joins the circle. "Piece?"

The stone reacts, turning a cool blue, and spinning with the spout sparking more lively than before.

Solas answers, "More trail markers, perhaps. "

"By invitation only," Feynriel acknowledges Varric's chosen status.

"Is it safe to touch?" Varric asks.

"I sense no danger," Solas says. "I sense the power of the Veil."

"Strange. If this is Hawke's doing, makes no sense how she would know so much about the Veil to create this."

"Any mage can learn the technique, but it would take someone else who knows more to teach her. But if she's self-taught, that would take immense power."

"Assuming she's alive," Feynriel says.

Cassandra glares at him.

"She's alive," he corrects. "Totally. One-hundred percent."

Hawke laughs.

What?

Varric stares at the swirling blue. The laugh echoes ear-to-ear, as clear as if she stood in front of him. He chances Solas' wisdom and takes the stone in his fingertips. Magic fizzes and feels like he dipped his glove in bubbling wine, but the Fade blacks out, and he finds himself sitting at his writing desk.

"Varric?" Solas' voice is swallowed by water. "Are you okay?"

Marian Hawke sits on the corner—he tries not to notice how her thigh curves into her hip, and creases her robes that thin her waist. Her infectious laugh locks him out of the story he was writing, and he looks up to see her smile rippling. She reaches for him—

The ink bottle spills and soaks the pages. An hour of work gone in less than a breath.

—And scrambles to upright the bottle, and find a cloth.

"Shit. I'm so sorry, Varric!"

"It's fine; don't worry about it."

"I'll rewrite it for you. I'll buy you more ink. I'll—"

"Really, Hawke. It's fine. The rough is around here somewhere—"

She pats the papers so frantically he can hear her nerves electrified.

"Shit. It's gotten on your desk! I'll buy you a new desk!"

"Marian!"

He snatches her hand. Black splats along their skin. Hawke gasps, maybe it was a meep. Did she feel the shock too? It tingles up his arm, restarting his arrested heart. The ink sticks between their fingers. He weaves them between hers. She stands twice his size but her voice shakes when she looks him in his golden eyes.

"Varric," she says. "You're not wearing gloves."

"Varric." Not Hawke says.

"Varric!" Cassandra?

He blinks and he's back in the Fade. He tucks the stone in his breast pocket, trying to blink away the chestpounding. He swears he can feel the ink sticking his palm to hers.

"She wrote these," he states, coughing the bubble in his throat. "I don't know how, but she did."

"Do I want to know how you know?" Cassandra says.

"You read Tales of the Champion, Seeker. This was a missing scene."

"One only Hawke and you would know, of course. The real puzzle is which mirror to go through. What did the stone say?"

"Are you asking if the stone communed with me?" Varric suffers hearing himself laugh. "I got nothing."

It would be tedious to choose a mirror left to right, mark it, then after walking through several other Eluvians, and marking those, to come back here, and repeat the process. He brought everything a trickster needs, but ink didn't make the list, and time was setting in Thedas.

Varric walks along one side, while Solas follows suit on the other.

He brushes his hand along the frames since touching the stone activated it, maybe something will show up similarly. They don't hum or vibrate and don't have a switch or secret lever.

"See anything, Chuckles?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary. You?"

Varric shakes his head. He meets Solas at the "top" Eluvian. 

"This shit is everything out of the ordinary. This is a prison of out-of-ordinaries. This—"

Clear, calligraphic style lettering illuminates a piece of the frame next to Solas. Varric stares. It can't be. 

"—is the letter H."

Solas looks and says, "I don't see anything."

"Neither do I," Cassandra says. "The dwarf broke."

Shining bright as Solas' head in the Western Approach, Varric thought. Out loud: "It's glowing, it's blue, it's an H. And nobody but me can see this?"

Feynriel jumps to his defense. "Wait! Wait, wait." He paces, waving his arms about to enunciate his words. "The stone activated only to you. Solas handled it, yet he never saw the vision, but you did, and whatever you're seeing now must be a side effect to that. What came from the stone is now in you."

"Dwarves can't use magic," Cassandra says.

"Of course they can," he says simply. "They just can't cast it."

And Chuckles...chuckles. 

"Great," Cassandra rolls her eyes. "Now  _he's_  broken."

"Surprised is all," Solas says, "if not a little impressed. Feynriel, you're saying that Hawke's magic isn't just reactive, but a channel."

"It could just be temporary, but the puzzles we found so far say otherwise."

"You think Hawke and Varric are linked."

Feynriel chooses his answer after one big breath. "Yes."

"Well, dwarf?" Solas looks at him.

"All that shit makes no sense." He pokes the letter. "But if this is a marker, I have to follow."

Solas grabs Varric before he walks through. "Made by someone left in the Fade."

"So?"

"Trapped by Nightmare, a demon the Inquisitor could not kill on her own. It's time to consider that we may be dealing with something darker than we want to believe."

"Hawke is alive, Solas! She's sending me images only I know about, only she knows about!"

"Only the Nightmare knows about."

"So what?"

"Varric, there are more outcomes here than we realize. And I want you to hold on to hope, but don't expect the best."

"I didn't come to the Fade thinking Hawke would be wearing a silk slip and jump in my arms from a basket of rose petals."

"That's not—I'm sorry, Varric."

"Don't worry about it, Chuckles. I think every door is a trap."

With no more distractions, and no hesitation, he steps through. White encompasses him and the path swirls under his boots to the exit.

Behind hope is someone in its shadow with an ax waiting to murder it. Those who assume everyone is made of rainbows and nug whiskers will be crushed. Ask Daisy about her former keeper. Hawke could be in any number of situations, but if he thought of every one, his worry would swallow him. She wouldn't want him to look on the darkest sides, so instead he blatantly ignores them, like he does most things. Aware but unaware; enough to keep him alive and blissfully ignorant. Because if it was the Nightmare demon using Hawke to get to him, or using him to get to Hawke, he's heading right to Hawke. 

Varric calls that a win.

He pats the stone in his pocket. "All right, Champion of Kirkwall. You lead. As always, I'll follow."


	9. The Spoiled Silk

And it's already been a day and Dorian thought of strangling Josephine with her own fashion disaster—twice—but the silk would slip any way he tried—so not worth the effort. He could burn her wardrobe or maybe Solas wants gold trimmings for the party. How long would it take until she noticed his disdain for her? She hasn't noticed every time she walks into the room he comes up with an excuse to leave it. There are only so many times he can make a trip to the kitchen before the cooks begin thinking he's attracted to them.

Dorian had set the tables with two elven servants stealing glances his way. Why would a Tevinter noble help with petty work, they're probably wondering. Is he so above them he can't help with last minute orders? They're already short on staff and the Inquisitor left for an emergency outing to Val Royeaux. She said she'd be back in time, although how much she had to drink before she left may render a different schedule. It took her how long from the Game to here? Well. Logan is faster on her own. She took the red Charger because the horsemaster said she was power and speed. But he digresses. The chargers on the table sparkle when he turns them just so. Did he just coo out loud? The snickers between the elves confirm it.

Josephine's squeals rake his ears. She barges into the great hall, not five minutes after she left. He underestimated the power of the elves; their ability to not eyeroll at every annoyance demands respect.

"I cannot believe how fast people reply to these invitations! How do the birds sleep?"

Dorian says through his teeth. "With you around, what's sleep?"

He shifts the silverware an inch and a half away from the plate, and evens them along their handles. One refuses to cooperate so he flicks it, ruining the arrangement. Dorian addresses her passive request for help and snatches her board.

"Hey—!" She says.

But he swears she sighs with relief.

He reads over two sheets—one with checks and lines across a seemingly infinite column of names, and the other with scribbled names. Sweet Andraste, she's invited half of Thedas.

"What...is this?" he asks about the scribbles.

"The confirmed guests list."

He wrinkles the corner and a drop of wax falls from the candle.

"Careful!" she says.

"Lady Montilyet, do any of these names ring a bell?"

"Of course they do." She looks its over; her floral perfume wafts up his nose. She trails her finger down and stops where he hopes she would. "Bloody flames!"

He snorts. "Excuse me?"

"I am such a—I am so sorry! I didn't think—I just—oh Maker, no—what are we going to do?"

"First," he says, patting her on the back, "and this is top priority. You cannot fail this quest for the life of you."

"What must I do?"

"Take a nap."

"What?"

"Come on." He takes her hand and leads her to the Inquisitor's chamber. "Restoration is but a short climb away."

"Oh no, I could not. This is strictly for Lady Trevelyan."

"She won't mind."

"But—"

"Trust me."

A couple staircases conquered, Dorian drags her toward the bed.

"Logan?" He calls. "You here?" He turns Josephine around. "See? Not here. You." He sits her on the mattress. "Sleep."

"I don't think this will really—oh. It's firm yet squishy."

"Is it now? Take deep, slow breaths. Think of a relaxing, quiet paradise to lull you into a drowsy vacation from your worst mistake ever made in the history of Varric's trashy romance novels."

"Not helping, Pavus." But she lies down anyway.

He takes off her shoes and drops them on the floor. "Good night."

"But...the party..."

He skips down the stairs. "I'll handle it from here. Leliana will tend to the people. Cullen has the castle. Night!" And slams the door, blowing the candle out on the writing board.

"Free," he purrs.

And almost forgets the inescapable dilemma he holds in his hand. He rubs his thumb across the paper as if it were a crystal ball. Rubbing the name off might make the problem disappear. As fast as Cullen could get a woman in bed, Dorian draws breath in the short peace, then storms down the hall, mind locked on the rookery. Leliana could send agents and, possibly, with sharpened blades; whatever stops this mess before it turns—he hates the word ugly—he'll use less-than-fabulous. All they need to do is strike the messenger before another crow flies in with an RSVP from—

A crow flies in, sees the board in Dorian's hand, and swoops in for the landing. It caws. Dorian resists strangling it—it isn't its fault—and takes the note it holds in its carrier. One more caw, and the crow flies back to roost. Dorian figures Leliana trained it to know the one thing Josephine never lets go of, and fly there directly. Maybe if he threw the board off the mountainside, all crows delivering would stay there. No letters, no news, no one let inside unless he says so. Brilliant. And hopelessly stupid.

He unrolls the letter.

First thing he sees: a dwarven seal.

Second thing: the signature.

Dorian drops it like anything slimy and coated with crawling maggots.

Bianca Davri graciously declines in elaborately neat, black ink.

But in hastily scribbled ink, she's checked the box for vegetable soup, and says: "I'll be there."

Dorian feels for cracks on his chiseled head. Fantastic. No stress is showing.

"Lord Pavus!"

He jumps, dropping the board.

Cullen commands any room he charges through, but this is not that time.

"What?" Did a vein pop?

"Maker, you look—"

"Don't say it, for both our sakes."

"All right." He peeks at the floor. Nothing gets by him. "Eh, Inquisitor sent word that—" He lowers his voice. "—Blackwall faces the gallows, and she wants him for herself."

If it wasn't for the good ol' sayings describing loyal friendship, he would want the general all for himself.

"Where is Josephine?" Cullen asks.

"Indisposed. I shall relay the message."

"And I'll collaborate with Leliana on the matter in the mean time." The soldier face drops and softens his eyes. In one moment, he sees what she sees: a compassionate man. "Poor Logan. Not five minutes back and she's at the bottom of a stein again."

"She's here?"

"Oh yes. Quite fast. Morrigan's magical influence, no doubt. I managed to get her out of that tavern before she went to the infirmary. Something is seriously wrong." He inspects Dorian, not in the way Dorian desires, but it's something. "You're a friend to her. Do you think...?"

"Of course."

Of course Altus Dorian Pavus can take care of everyone's problems. Thank you, Master Tethras. Thank you so much, Suspiciously-No-Surname Solas. Anything for our dear Inquisitor. He must have one of those faces. The sucker face.

Soon after Cullen leaves, Logan enters.

"Hey, Dorian," she says with a trembling grin.

"Cullen asked about you."

She closes her eyes and nods, rather, rolls her head around as if to try and nod, but ends up shaking it.

"He would do that."

"He didn't want you seeking answers where there are none."

"Mmhm."

Still shaking nods with eyes closed.

"Or end up in the infirm—"

"I had ONE drink!" she snaps, eyes sharp and wild. "Today."

"Does a day count if you haven't slept?"

Logan cracks along her mouth; it shrivels her cheeks, and ages her darkened eyes where kegs of what she once drowned herself in came pouring through her broken face. Dorian frantically waves off servants who noticed to try and divert guests to the garden, or courtyard—anywhere but here. First, a drunken leader, now a slobbering snot fountain.

"It was a joke," Dorian pleads. "A joke!"

Logan heaves between words. "I—haven't—slept—in—weeks!"

Splotches breed along her creased forehead where sweat beads down into one eye that's been swelling red and purple, and the other fluttering its lid trying to fly away from the wreck. Dorian fights the sneer of disgust peeling at his lip.

"Weeks?"

"Not—since—Hawke—shit! Of all the—" she snorts to reel the snot back. "STUPID! Stupid!"

He can't stand to look at her a second longer. Brace for nastiness, silk, because he's going to sacrifice it for the sake of his vision.

Dorian grabs what part of her is driest and hugs her. Logan's hair is damp and hot. Her mess presses into the softest piece of his chest and eventually he feels the wetness soak through. He shudders, but can't help to think above all the ingloriousness that she is quite tall. Almost as tall as him. Tall yet vulnerable, with the countries on her shoulders, and no one to flower her with gifts except bouquets of problems, skepticism, and backstabbings. Logan is a Vint by his proxy. And if it counted, he'd note that she's and him are so similar in this way that she might as well be him, which may be why he detests seeing her this way, because at one point—okay, several points—he looked like rotten fruit stuck in meat jelly with strange liquids leaking out. The trek leaving Tevinter had him smelling like it too.

"Okay," Logan mumbles in his armpit. "Okay."

Dorian rips a napkin from the table and goes to wipe his clothes, but she snatches it—"Thank you, Dorian"—and blots her puffy eyes.

"Anything for you," he says.

Note to self: retan the leather, burn the cloth.

"I'm gonna lie down now."

He nods, then the spark of remembrance spanks him, but she's already several paces ahead.

"W—wait!"

"Not now, Dorian. Please. I...I just need sleep."

Has he grown ass ears? Dorian runs his fingers through his hair, then jumps to grab Logan, but misses. The hall doors burst open. An army of silhouettes march in—

"Don't mess with the table arrangements!" is all he could blurt out. "Those are carefully crafted!"

—and stop just before the table arrangements. Dorian's head spins—Logan's gone. Cullen's soldiers line the new guests, a hodge podge of people varying in species and culture. One elven figure breaks ranks and approaches. The doors creak shut by some passersby, and the blinding glow behind him wanes, and binds itself to the elf's claws in an electric blue.

Dorian stares at the elf's greatsword on the back of his wildling coat, but the first thing he really notices is the square jaw and apple green eyes, faceted by a sharp nose angled down like a spearhead.

His voice strings together words of contempt, enchanting as cello vibrato set afire.

"Where is Hawke?"

Words could not have stabbed worse, except the stain of snot, and salty ale tears weakened his armor, and formal facade. He might as well have been caught naked; at least that would be pleasing to look at. There's a reason there's a full-sized mirror in his room.

Dorian responds, "And me without a hand towel and champagne."

Give it up, Dorian, and just say it: this turned ugly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: "A Story You Won't Believe" by Marcin Przybylowicz; The Witcher 3 soundtrack.


	10. The Day His World Went Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs: "A Thousand Years" by Christina Perri; "Injection" by Hans Zimmer; "Saturn" by Sleeping At Last.
> 
> "A Thousand Years"
> 
> Heart beats fast  
> Colors and promises  
> How to be brave  
> How can I love when I'm afraid to fall  
> But watching you stand alone  
> All of my doubt, suddenly goes away somehow
> 
> One step closer
> 
> I have died everyday, waiting for you  
> Darling, don't be afraid, I have loved you for a thousand years  
> I'll love you for a thousand more
> 
> Time stands still  
> Beauty in all she is  
> I will be brave  
> I will not let anything, take away  
> What's standing in front of me  
> Every breath, every hour has come to this
> 
> One step closer
> 
> I have died everyday, waiting for you  
> Darling, don't be afraid, I have loved you for a thousand years  
> I'll love you for a thousand more
> 
> And all along I believed, I would find you  
> Time has brought your heart to me, I have loved you for a thousand years  
> I'll love you for a thousand more
> 
> One step closer  
> One step closer
> 
> I have died everyday, waiting for you  
> Darling, don't be afraid, I have loved you for a thousand years  
> I'll love you for a thousand more
> 
> And all along I believed, I would find you  
> Time has brought your heart to me, I have loved you for a thousand years  
> I'll love you for a thousand more

 

Soul, ghost, spirit—does it matter where we go when we die? We feel pain in the end, but who gets true peace, when all the burdens they carried fall away, and leave them to fly? Some bodies he’s looked down on had grimaces, some in shock, but only one at peace. And it wasn’t his mother.

It was Hawke’s.

The next token they found had launched him back to the second he killed Gascard DuPuis, the man who betrayed Hawke just a little bit worse than Anders. Okay, okay. A lot worse.

“What?” Varric had said as he retrieved the arrow from Gascard’s back. “You were going to do that right?”

He could never forget the stench then and the flashback now burned it into his nostrils again. The old meat and magic particles still lingered when Solas patted him back into the present. Yet, with all that was wrong and traumatic, the image of Leandra’s resting facade in Hawke’s arms cozied inside him. The real time it happened, there was a sinkhole in his gut. In this flashback? It was that grain of sand in the hourglass, that half-second that freezes in the adrenaline rush, when you realize the worst has happened, and there’s nothing you can do, but in it is a beauty that entices its preservation before the aftermath crushes your heart.

That was that moment. Leandra Hawke: at peace; happy.

Happy to be rescued, happy to reunite with her husband and daughter, but knowing the strongest of the Amells would live on—she may have been stitched up by a monster, but it was seeing Hawke that made her whole again.

He never told her that Leandra’s death hurt him more than he showed. The one woman he loved most was his mother and she showed him the torture of love unreciprocated. Why should he tell anyone how he feels after that? Leandra saw through his walls. She picked them up and threw them over her shoulder, leaving him bare, and his coin purse light. She played cards on their downtime, which wasn’t a lot, but quality before quantity. Learning more about Leandra led him to know Marian. During one of the rounds, Leandra expressed her concerns of old age, and Hawke’s increase in perilous adventures.

“She survived the Deep Roads, Leandra,” Varric had said, shifting his hand.

“Your help, no doubt. But also your doing.” Leandra glared.

“If Hawke rejected me, I would have walked away respectfully.”

“A gentleman, are you?”

“And all that entails, my lady.”

That night she made him promise to protect her, every step. Hawke helped by always choosing him for the fights, especially the big ones. He cannot account for the Arishok, though. Well, he managed a major discount on health potions that day, so he helped in a small way.

Truth is, he had made that promise the moment Hawke accepted his partnership. Stirring up trouble was his way of saying “I have your back as long as I live.”

But when he saw Leandra—not Leandra, but her face—every round of cards he lost to her flooded back. And that sinkhole filled with stories of how she met Malcolm, sneaking around, running away—all for true love, and to protect their future loves. Leandra had bestowed that enduring survival onto him.

“Swear to me, Varric,” she had said.

Swear to her. He swore to himself sevenfold. And he blames himself for everything that happened to her along the way.

Varric had watched the moments of Marian’s happiness slip away, and he remembers them all, and how he tried so hard not to smother her like the hen he’d been called. He let Anders pay respects, and even tried to respect him back, or at least be kind. Hawke didn’t need another needy nag. She needed a warm fire and a chair to sit on, next to a friend with an open ear. The only time anyone did that was Leandra’s passing. No one else kept up on it. Always needing her. Asking. Telling. Even though he had asked for her help on a couple occasions, he didn’t abuse it. In fact, his arm, and everything else (except that, you naughty nug) was hers any time. And yes, he saw plenty opportunities for fortune through her.

But she made him the richest dwarf in the world when she would stop by…

…just to say hi.

Varric pats the wall he’s been walking beside after the third Eluvian they used. The first time after he pocketed the token, the tree was left of the largest peak. Now it rests over a smaller peak, but when he exclaimed it moved, no one believed him. No one said they didn’t believe, but he knew. They’re tired. They’re bored, but they’re here for him, and trying their best. That’s all they can do at this point. That, and survive. So what if minutes feel like hours? And if they miss Solas’ unbirthday party, they can have it right here! They are a party after all, so make it a party! Right?

Cassandra had started tacking her glove with a knife every time she counted to one hundred. After the puzzles, there had been no demons. No sign of anything except more Fade. So what’s a warrior to do if she can’t slash through enemies? She takes it out on the dead gurn under her plating. And when she runs out of gurn, she’ll be after his snoufleur next. And he happens to like his snoufleur undamaged. If only he brought a spare book to shield himself.

It’s not a surprise they find this part of the journey uneventful; they’re not the ones gaining the flashbacks. Although a tiny part of him wishes they could so he didn’t have to explain, these memories are what Hawke wanted to show him, and he’s feeling contently selfish.

Varric plays with the tokens in his coat. Four now; four memories. Four times feeling her close, seeing her laugh, cry, smile, and frown again. She’s near. It doesn’t matter if he’s the only one who thinks that as long as someone does. Hawke needs faith just in case she has none left. Quick, Seeker, stick a dagger in him; he sounds like Sebastian.

If a sky existed in the Fade, it’s more blue now than that creepy green that reminded him of a bucket of sick they used to have back at The Hanged Man. If he hadn’t tipped beyond what’s expected, no one would empty it, and the latrine would be covered in piss, shit, and sick. If the world was without him, it would be marinating in the stuff. And if he was without Hawke…best think about what he’s going to do when he gets to that tree.

He made a promise that day Hawke lost her mother, a promise the Inquisitor forced him to break. She didn’t know. 

She did not know. 

He bites the inside of his cheek.

Solas hums the song again. Varric loses the tension in his shoulders. It brings more comfort from him than the bard. It feels like Cole created a failsafe in cases like this. It’s nice to have friends to rely on. When they mean to help, they do it; it’s just strange not having the old crew here. They used to bicker endlessly, and if it wasn’t for Hawke’s under-breath remarks when Fenris went on about mages, or Isabela forgetting her underwear (it was not a one-time occurrence), he’d have walked into all those traps people left lying around, just to feel any kind of physical pain to oversee the mental anguish. Still, he misses them. And if they weren’t so busy with making their own lives, thriving, and being awesome, like himself, he’d have told them about this venture. He’d welcome the bicker brigade.

Silver shines across an archway formed around an inactive Eluvian. Cassandra tacks another notch in her glove, then sheathes the dagger for her sword and shield. It gleams in the distance, the expanse between them and it mimics the charge a jouster must make to attack his opponent. Only this opponent is inanimate and unlike the others. It’s older, more a part of the Fade than any of the ones they used before. Could this be it? Would this take them to the tree?

“It’s ancient,” Feynriel says. “What happened to it?”

They approach, treading the ground with careful steps.

The beams of light come from nowhere. The sky cools to a pale blue, not quite like Thedas but familiar, still dressed with floating rocks. Closing in, the mountains change, the horizon drifts forward, as does the tree. Prickles rush through his fingers and toes. His chest pings small bursts of what can only be joy and he thrusts his body down the walkway, almost leaving the party behind.

Everything comes together, the mountains loom overhead, the tree blocks out chunks of sky. He reaches the mirror—holes along the frame can only mean the tokens fit there. He fumbles them, drops one, Solas snatches it, places it at the top, Varric works bottom-up. A little H presents itself where rock meets red and black glass, and then it shatters.

Pieces burst in his face. Solas puts up a barrier too late. They’re cut, sliced, and as the shards fall to the ground, they form a puddle. It pulls Solas in before he can yell. Feynriel jumps back, then stabs his staff into the puddle.

“He’s not grabbing on!” Feynriel shouts.

The puddle grabs the staff. Feynriel lurches forward, let’s go of the staff, but plunges, and disappears.

“Holy shit,” Varric scrambles away, not realizing Cassandra’s behind him.

She snatches his coat and shoves him further back, shield up.

“Run, you stupid dwarf!”

“Those with a heart of gold may enter,” a voice says.

Varric shifts around, Cassandra’s eyes dart, shield follows.

“Who is that?” he asks.

“I am who I am because of him.”

“Descriptive. Got a name?”

“The Eluvian.”

They look down at the puddle. It stretches upward into a form mimicking Cassandra’s frame, or maybe Solas. It doesn’t have hair.

“I’m…supposed to go through that? Body?”

“Where is Solas?” Cassandra demands. “And Feynriel?”

“The elves. I put them in the Crossroads. They are safe but not allowed where you want to go.”

“And where is it I want to go?” Varric crosses his arms.

It points high up. The tree and the mountain grow taller as the Eluvian does.

“That is not the real tree. You have been chasing an illusion.”

“Where is the real tree?”

It points to itself. “Through me. Be warned. I did not predict anyone could breach the outer gates. The demon hunting Hawke still lives.”

“Nightmare,” Varric mutters. “Great. Could have let my mage pals stay with me.”

“You cannot defeat Nightmare. You will run. You will pass the tests. You will find Hawke. That is all.”

“That’s all or that’s all you know?”

“That’s all I am to say. Please, hurry.”

Varric and Cassandra walk up.

The Eluvian jerks its head around. “No, wait. Stop!”

They stop.

“Please!”

Black legs burst through its abdomen and tear it in two. The mountain crackles. Long splits cascade the rock and the Eluvian breaks from its frame and falls with a creak. The mountain crumbles and carries the tree into the rubble, where dust billows, and chokes Varric.

He coughs behind his handkerchief and waves the dust away as he falls to what’s left of the Eluvian.

“Mirrors see two ways,” Cassandra wheezes. “That must have been the Nightmare—”

“Ya think!?” Varric remarks.

“Don’t snap at me!”

“This was your idea!” he yells, trying to put the pieces together. They’re solid. Shit. “You encouraged this!”

“What?”

“You practically begged!”

“Excuse me!?” She stands over him. “I wasn’t the one crying over your Champion, dwarf. I wasn’t drinking, writing hopeless love confessions while wallowing in regret when you could have told the Inquisitor how you felt! You didn’t! You don’t tell anyone how you feel! That’s why you’re in this mess! And I’m stuck with you, you ungrateful, short-sided ass!”

A shadow swings down before he’s able to grab Bianca—pain shoots across his skull and he holds up an arm to deflect another attack. Cassandra holds her shield on its edges and slams it down again. Metal strikes his glove. Wrist stings and dulls the blow to the head.

“You crazy—”

“What?”

He rolls back before she gets another hit, and drops a cloaking pellet.

“Andraste’s ass, I’m sorry, Cassandra! I just wanted to—” He sneaks behind her. “—wanted to do this!”

He trips her and jumps on her back to grab her hair and smash her face into the ground. More metal smashes into him, that shield is her only friend, he swears.

“That’s a cheap shot, Varric!”

“Mine? You started it!”

“Enough!” She heaves. “Enough.”

She collapses by the shards of what’s left of the only door back to Hawke. Varric’s cloak melts away. He turns from her, red in the nose and bruises forming, throbbing against the building headache. He picks a large piece, and turns it back to front, seeing his reflection—seeing the tears he fights back.

“She’s gone,” he exhales.

“It. It is gone.”

He hugs his knees.

Varric loses track how long he had been sitting there, but Cassandra taps his shoulder.

“Varric,” she says. “Varric!”

He peeks over his arm with dry, itchy eyes, and a heavy brow. Blood from the thousand cuts crusted in the wounds along his skin. It stings when he moves. The dust has settled around them; the rubble of the mountain is gone. Nothing stands around them except a field of flat, wet rock reflecting a dull blue sky. In the distance, a chasm of unknown depth, reaching until he cannot see the crack in the floor on the horizon. Even the tree is gone, but where it would have fallen lies a naked body.

This is the moment he’s dreaded since he sent that letter.

Varric’s stomach shakes. He swallows the pouring want to wail. He crawls onward, toward the pale, curving back, scarred by countless battles, and tavern fights. Burned by magic, healed, and stitched. He recognizes the birthmark along her hairline, a splotch on her neck where he thought Junior hit her when he walked in her shadow. He can’t feel his hands move along the ground, though his gloves are ice cold. His armor clinks and drags, echoing in the emptiness. No strength to try and walk, he pulls and pushes, closer, closer—her translucent skin sheens in the lightless misery.

He reaches—he can’t. He drops and struggles to pull the glove off. He has to know—has to. He reaches again. Has to.

Varric. You’re not wearing gloves.

It’s scary how cold we get when we die. When all life goes out, there’s nothing left but the vessel we once walked the world. That’s all we are after. Varric stiffens at the hardness of her skin, the vacant blood; it’s not her anymore. It’s just the vessel, the vessel he swore to protect. He promised her. He promised both of them. He promised himself. What will he do now that her story ends here?

“Can you—” she stops, knowing well he can’t muster to look.

Cassandra respectfully keeps a distance, walking around to see the face. She bows her head and kneels.

“The Champion is gone,” she confirms.

“Oh,” is all he can say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> = = = = =
> 
> "Saturn"
> 
> You taught me the courage of stars before you left.  
> How light carries on endlessly, even after death.  
> With shortness of breath, you explained the infinite.  
> How rare and beautiful it is to even exist.
> 
> I couldn’t help but ask  
> For you to say it all again.  
> I tried to write it down  
> But I could never find a pen.  
> I’d give anything to hear  
> You say it one more time,  
> That the universe was made  
> Just to be seen by my eyes.
> 
> I couldn’t help but ask  
> For you to say it all again.  
> I tried to write it down  
> But I could never find a pen.  
> I’d give anything to hear  
> You say it one more time,  
> That the universe was made  
> Just to be seen by my eyes.
> 
> With shortness of breath, I’ll explain the infinite  
> How rare and beautiful it truly is that we exist.


	11. Démon d'Oeuvre

 

“I’m—.”

Sorry. Varric’s stomach rolls with the tingles up his skin when Cass sits alongside him, Warmth pulls from his fibers and he forgets the last time he could feel his legs. Bianca wilts on his back; one of her pieces digs into his back—something along the stock didn’t retract again—her reminder that he’s alive, and this isn’t one of those sleeping walks through the Fade. He can’t stop his hands from shaking and doesn’t put effort in to try.

This is the moment he’s dreaded since he sent that letter.

Weight wraps his arm. Cassandra holds it and he hasn’t the strength to jerk away. An odor wafts from under her armor, a mix of flora and venom from her sweat. But he fails to retreat. He fails to tell her off because somehow she’s the only one around bringing comfort. Seeing the shining pink swelling in her eyes brews the proof that she might need his comfort too.

Heat burns his face, rising from the back of his neck and flushing his cheeks. He breathes through the nausea, trying to blow it away. Blow everything away.

Trying begets disappointment.

Memories of Hawke stream from his eyes.

Solas calls closure a gift. It’s not much of a gift when the present lies unwrapped and dead.

That is odd, that Hawke came here armored, and winds up without it.

In a vast, empty field.

No demons in sight.

In sight.

“—real!”

A call sounds from far above, a long echo carrying desperation.

“—It’s not—”

Cassandra stands with help from his shoulder.

“That sounds like Cole,” she says.

Green mist flickers in the distance. Cassandra shoots her arm out, pointing.

“There!”

But he’s already locked on. Varric eyes the trail flashing between distances as it closes in. Who and what would he believe to be the nightmare? Cole telling him the journey isn’t over or what everyone expected to be over that he couldn’t take? Either way exhausts his reserves.

Green wisps race with Cole.

“It’s not real!” he chants until he’s mere meters away. “You’re under the demon’s power!”

“Cole! You’re here!” She draws her sword, suddenly dropping her enthusiasm. “You’re here. How? Are you an illusion?”

“I’m me! This is an illusion.”

“Prove it.”

“This is a nightmare. You’re both trapped here because you both fear Hawke’s death. You greatly adm—”

“—Okay, that’s enough.”

“You want love like she has.”

“Cole, I get it.”

“You read her tales six—”

“Who’s counting, Cole!?”

Warmth swarms Varric in the midst of their arguing. All he needed to hear is everything that he fears more: that there is more, that he must continue. He’s calmly terrified, and elated, thinking he would be afraid that Hawke was really dead, but now it’s opposite. Does fear cooperate with joy? Can good fear exist? Despair lifts the heavy air and he rekindles feeling in his legs. He stands, staring off at the empty horizon. Is this the feeling when people realize they are dreaming? He can change what he sees, change what happens, and escape an ending he despises.

“Where’s Solas?” Cassandra asks.

“With the one between worlds.”

“Do you mean the Dreamer? Feynriel?”

He nods.

That verifies what the Eluvian had said. Perhaps the mirror wasn’t part of the nightmare.

“Varric,” Cole says, “Demons are coming.”

Varric hears nothing but his pounding heart.

“They sense true love,” Cole continues. “They want to possess it or kill it. I ran because they are too many. Too many because of him.”

“Him?”

“The Dreamer. He was here long before us. It’s their mess but they stay because they want it clean.”

Seeker asks, “You confuse me. What happened to you?”

“You saw. The Dreamer sent me away. He made things happen to you, not me.”

“What did he do?”

“He wanted—tried to help. Eyes so clear, staring, pleading. No one’s ever asked for my help before.”

“Is that Feynriel? Who did he see?”

“The demon. He did not see another coming. He trapped you here. So close to death. Last attempt to hide, to trap you. It almost worked.”

“Another? Feynriel mentioned his partner.”

“Please hurry. The demons are close. Loud, hungry, angry.”

“How do we get out of here?”

“There.” He points at nothing, but whatever is beyond Varric. “I see her, Varric.”

Varric swallows the rock in his throat.

“I see your hawk and she needs you.”

“How do you know?” Varric exhales.

A smile creeps along Cole’s face. “I asked her.” He walks ahead, arm out, ready. “I will break the way to the Nightmare. Someone awaits you there. He wants to help. Someone the Dreamer tried to hide but I saw.”

“Come with me,” Varric says.

“We can’t,” Cole says. “We have to hold the bridge.”

Varric reaches into every pocket and dumps everything from grenades and traps, to his vanish pellets and even a couple remaining stamina draughts.

“You are so close, Varric,” Seeker says. “You can’t stop now.”

“I’m not.” He grins and winks up at her. “Parting gifts. Use them wisely.”

“Don’t you need them?”

“I got Bianca.” Varric readies her. “Open the way, kid!”

Cassandra squeaks out a bout of what seems to be excitement.

“What was that?” Varric teases.

“Nothing, dwarf! I’ll cover you! Now go.” She brings about her shield and sword. With a smile. “Go!”

Smiles are infectious.

Cole breaks apart what looks like an invisible veil, like the world itself is a mirror. Green mist pulls at a weak point and after a few exasperated breaths in the tug-of-war, Cole tears it down. A long bridge to a real Eluvian looms at Varric’s feet. The chasm once in the distance now trails underneath the bridge, with no bottom but blackness and faint screams of an eerie wind. Varric turns—with the entire illusion shattered, he stands between an army of demons on the horizon, and the narrow escape meant for him alone.

The Inquisitor’s voice rattles in his mind. “Hawke…”

Say goodbye to Varric for me.

Varric shouts at Cassandra, “You’ll die!”

“If the Maker wills it,” she says. “but I’d rather not defending your ass! Hurry up!”

She shoves him and he bolts down the bridge without thinking, without a second—third hesitation.

This is it.

This is real.

This is happening.

Hawke lies beyond this mirror and when he jumps through, he’ll finish off the Nightmare demon, and break for the tree.

Varric leaps.

White, wetless water surrounds him. Cole, Cassandra, and the horde of demons disappear. He falls out from the bright in-between, and rolls to land—feet planted—on more Fade rock, Bianca aiming single-handedly. He surveys through her sight. There’s the mountain—it’s bigger than the illusion, and shaped for an arena. No tree, though, just the crippled body of a massive spider with crusty armor, and vacant eyes.

The Nightmare demon.

Crunching noises entice Varric to tip-toe around for the source as he brings Bianca into his shoulder. Along the limbs sit babies, covered in sludge, snapping off pieces of armor, and shoving it in their mouths. His boot slips on sand. A baby turns—its black, hollow eyes stare, mouth still slapping closed and open with dark blood smeared across its face.

Varric shoves a knuckle in his mouth to bite on as his face pales.

It croaks.

All babies zip their black holes on him, hissing, and growling. Their skin melts and merges, bubbling, converging into one, and creeping, oozing toward him. Varric automatically slips his finger on the trigger, but his gut says wait. He aims anyway. The black blob rises and takes shape of a decrepit man with a hood dripping back into himself.

“Don’t worry, Varric,” he says. “This isn’t your nightmare anymore. It’s mine.”

He pulls the hood back.

It sounds like him. It can’t be him. It can’t but it is. He’s standing there.

Right there.

Blondie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: "His Brightest Star Was You" by Thomas Bergersen (Two Steps from Hell)


	12. The Truth in the Maybe

 

“Eternally slumbering,” he says. “He wanted to know the secrets of ancient dreamers, a process called Uthenara. He’d wake up to see if he made a difference. He never learned; too busy with his cause. Too busy to notice what he lost.”

His black robes of moving ink stain the ground as he steps forward, as if on two broken legs—close enough to talk instead of calling out. Varric lets him. His grayed skin mimics what might have been left of Anders if his body was preserved; nothing left of his hair, but if there is it’s hard to tell, and more likely soaked in whatever drips down his head.

“You’re not Anders,” Varric says.

He wishes it is. A burrowed hatred for what he had done floods back, and images of the Chantry, the spirit lashing out at victims, and Hawke’s diminishing happiness invade his head. He sees black turn red and takes every nerve to lift his finger to the side of the trigger guard. A muscle twinges in his shoulder; he clicks his jaw to stop from grinding his teeth.

Without a pause: “No I’m not.” He lets it sink in. “I am the demon of Remorse.”

“Not a spirit of regret?”

“Why lie? I have nothing left to lose.”

“What happened to Anders? Besides what I know.”

“I am a shade of what Anders died with; his guilt; his hopes, his wishes—all gone—manifested into me.”

“And you just happened to kill this Nightmare demon.”

“‘Demons don’t help.’ ‘Demons don’t fulfill dying wishes.’ Years ago it used to be that spirits and demons were synonymous. Take a hint from Merrill. Nothing is what the mortal world says it is.”

“Then what is it? I’ve seen some shit; I might be convinced.”

“About me? Anders synced into the Fade and became something more than either Justice or him could handle. Part of that abomination inspired something like me. From Vengeance to Regret, more officially—”

“A Remorse demon?” Solas snaps.

The Crossroads holds a web of Eluvians, broken or inactive, knocked down or barely standing. These are not the paths he once walked. Had he fully grasped the syntax of Eluvians, he’d have known who created this one so special, fabricated from spirit magic, and the realm of mortals. Only the most powerful of mages could have made it. If he wasn’t more worried about the present, he’d wonder where she—the mirror—came from.

The Dreamer wavers with just as much confusion as himself. However, this Dreamer, Feynriel, still lies with his tongue, and speaks truth through his sweat. The Eluvian graced Solas with freedom from the illusion, but now the urgency of returning to the others grows. How did a half-breed from Tevinter create such deception, this veil? It’s impressively trouble; Solas could not break whatever manner of magic he unleashed, as if he repurposed the Fade into itself. To do this makes little sense because Dreamers work in dreams; they cannot—no, that is close-minded of him—from what he knows, they cannot produce an hallucination this grand, especially physically in the Fade. Whoever he is, he is learned, and extremely powerful. But Feynriel knows something everyone should: Solas is too.

Now, the Dreamer cowers like the fools who killed Wisdom, who was a jewel stolen from these worlds because of plain stupidity. Solas stares the Dreamer down. The faces change, not the actions.

Conventional actions taste more desirable than crystal water from the floating waterfalls of ages past. Solas squeezes his fists until his nails sting his skin, and his knuckles turn white.

“Yes,” Feynriel raises his hands to make a poor face guard.

“How?”

“He found me. He was different than the others. He said his purpose was to help Hawke. But there was something else. I couldn’t understand it until we finally agreed to help each other. Please, he’s not a bad demon!”

“A demon acting like a spirit.”

“There’s more to it than—than that. I saw Cole and he’s more than that too.”

“You helped a creature in the Fade, and hid it from us. Tell me everything.” Solas snatches his robes and shoves him toward one of the Eluvians. “Along the way.”

“How do you know which way to go?”

“Move.”

Varric notes there isn’t a single thing to hide behind, or escape to. His best bet would have been to keep at least a couple stealth pellets, but no. Gallant is synonymous with stupid, Varric. Take note.

“Are you what Feynriel was hiding?” Varric asks.

“The Dreamer hid many things,” the demon says, “including Cole, to save him from facing the Nightmare demon again, including your team from the horde of demons attracted to Feynriel’s power. But he did not hide me. I was created for a different purpose. Feynriel anticipated Hawke’s most loyal would come for her, dead or alive. He drew up illusions to push demons away while he helped you get to me.”

“You’re his partner.”

“I suppose that’s what you would call it. An alliance. I sought out Feynriel when he walked the Fade and I requested his help. He had slain many demons before, but somehow decided to let me live.”

“You asked him to kill the Nightmare?”

“No. I asked him to save Hawke. I thought no one else would come. That is, until he saw you while traveling the Eluvians.”

“That was who I ran into.”

“That’s how he knew to find you. We had tried every Eluvian that we could find but only this one does not open. It requires something none of us can possess. When Feynriel noticed the aura around the Eluvian matches the aura around you, we were certain. So, he sought you out.”

“Wait a minute. Aura?”

“It’s like you’re linked to this door. We believe only you can open it. While he went to get you, I remained. That drew some attention but it’s taken care of.”

There isn’t a door in sight. He calms the twitch in his hand by petting Bianca’s stock.

“Why do you want said door, specifically?”

“Because no other door can reach Hawke. Anders spent the last piece of his soul wishing he could have done right by her. I want to save her but it is not my place, it seems. Feynriel failed to tell me this when he failed to mention the tests.”

“What is this about tests now? Did Feynriel betray you?”

“No. He did me a kindness, actually. He gave me hope when there is none. He couldn’t tell me about the door, but he did promise to find you to open it. Like I said, I remained here, a guardian. I have almost fulfilled my purpose.”

“To save Hawke?”

“That too. I stand here, also, to give you closure, something you have a hard time obtaining. I am sorry about your parents, your brother, and…I’m sorry it came to this.”

Varric pokes the beyonet in a patch of dirt. “Shit.”

“Kill me.”

If he hadn’t used Bianca as a cane, he might have fallen over.

Solas pulls the Dreamer through hopefully the last liquid white, just as a magical discharge screams toward them—Solas pops a barrier up—and it hits the dome, and bursts into sparks, then dies out. The calamity of battle, demons plaguing the field, blocking a clear shot to his allies—all too familiar. He ignores the war drums in his chest. He feels the way forward. A seventh sense. As far as he can see, the demons march, sloppily, casually, but all facing one way, which makes it simple.

The way to Cassandra is full of terrors, pride, and despair, but with Feynriel compliant, nothing will stand in their way for long. And Solas has a job to keep.

He slips on the ring and disappears.

“I hope you’re not just gonna leave me here,” Feynriel says.

That is a possibility. Solas surveys the easiest path through the curtains of moving squadrons.

“Hello?”

_Whack_.

Feynriel slaps his hands on the sting in his leg, holding a comical, gaping expression as Solas appears briefly, gently swinging his staff to and fro, then vanishes again.

“I’m here to keep you alive—”

“Oh good.”

“—so you can tell Cassandra what you told me.”

“Good, good.”

“Then she can kill you.”

“Come again?” Varric says.

“It’s not just what Anders wants. I have no desire to fight for the surface. Death is welcome. If it helps, I’m the one standing between you and the castle with the trapped princess.”

“You want me to kill you.”

“You said it yourself. ‘It’s not a good story unless the hero dies.’ And you are the force I cannot possibly defeat.”

He even holds the memories of Anders, yet he is only the demon of him, like Divine Justinia’s spirit. Seeker still can’t get over what she saw that day. And now, he knows the feeling, a questionable doubt, with lingering affirmation. This isn’t Anders. But it is.

“That’s not fair,” Varric says.

“Existing for a love that died long before he did isn’t fair."

Silence intensifies the longer Varric waits to hoist Bianca back in his arms. He raps his finger against the stock.

“She didn’t stop loving you—him. I watched her heart break too many times to care what happened to you. Him. Whatever.”

“She deserves better.”

“More than you and I.”

“Which makes you perfect.”

“Don’t go that far.”

“You were always there for her, Varric. Take care of her for me.” He grins. “You know what’s gonna be fun?”

“Handing your official death certificate to all the people you owe money?”

“Close. Watching you tell Bianca she’s no longer the only woman in your life.”

“Hey,” he scolds, cupping Bianca’s hypothetical ears with his hands. “She’s not ready for the news just yet.”

“Better hurry, then.”

“Right. Which way to the castle?”

Since Anders spoke of the door, he hasn’t spotted it yet. Unless, he meant it. Go through him, he goes through the door. True enough, Anders pats his chest and spreads his arms out; a free shot.

Varric sets up, Anders in both sights.

Anders notes, “Once I’m gone, prepare for anything.”

“I know.”

“And take it easy on Feynriel. He did what was best.”

“Are you stalling? Maybe you are Anders.”

“Maybe—”

_Shhp-shhp-shhp._ Arrows to heart, neck, then head (for careful measure)—at least he got him in a smile; he’ll be wearing it for a long second. Varric barely felt Bianca’s kick that time. As he lowers her, the Remorse demon drops its black robes; they melt into the ground, leaving behind a twisted skeleton, with bowed legs attached to a shattered pelvis, several ribs missing save two that have trapped a dagger’s blade. When Bianca returns to Varric’s back, the demon’s remains scatter into green particles, and dissipate.

Varric gasps to fill his lungs as if he held his breath since the first Eluvian. How long had he been under Feynriel’s magic? Maybe it’s still happening, or this was the deal-breaker. But the demon told him to lighten up on the guy, so he will, after everything goes right.

And that’s absolutely likely in all events leading up to this point. Abso-flubbing-lutely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: "You're Going Down" by Sick Puppies
> 
> Define your meanin' of fun  
> To me it's what we do when we're bored  
> I feel the heat comin' off of the blacktop  
> And it makes me want it more  
> Because I'm hyped up, outta control  
> If it's a fight I'm ready to go  
> I wouldn't put my money on the other guy  
> If you know what I already know
> 
> It's been a long time comin'  
> And the table's turned around  
> 'Cause one of us is goin'  
> One of us is goin' down  
> I'm not runnin'  
> It's a little different now  
> 'Cause one of us is goin'  
> One of us is goin' down
> 
> Define your meanin' of fun  
> To me it's when we're gettin' done  
> I feel the heat comin' off of the blacktop  
> So get ready for another one  
> Let's take a trip down memory lane  
> The words circulate in my brain  
> You can treat this like another all I'm sayin'  
> But don't cry like a bitch when you feel the pain
> 
> It's been a long time comin'  
> And the table's turned around  
> Cause one of us is goin'  
> One of us is goin' down  
> I'm not runnin'  
> It's a little different now  
> 'Cause one of us is goin'  
> One of us is goin' down
> 
> This is hardly worth fightin' for  
> But it's the little petty shit that I can't ignore  
> When my fist hits your face  
> And your face hits the floor  
> It'll be a long time comin'  
> But you got the message now  
> 'Cause I was never goin'  
> Yeah, you're the one that's goin' down  
> One of us is goin' down
> 
> It's been a long time comin'  
> And the table's turned around  
> Cause one of us is goin'  
> One of us is goin' down  
> I'm not runnin'  
> It's a little different now  
> 'Cause one of us is goin'  
> One of us is goin' down  
> One of us is goin' down


	13. Entrustment Not Enchantment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs: "Atlas: Sorrow;" "Fear" by Sleeping At Last

 

“Yours is the first I’ll break if this is another trick,” Cassandra says with the ‘pointy-end’ of sword at Feynriel.

She’d never admit it was cute when Varric used the term in jest of how she deals with the world’s problems. It seems fitting now to fix the current dilemma with a swift poke. She wishes her training granted telepathy, or a heightened falsehood detection spell. For now, she must take an apostate’s word for it—two apostates now—that Varric has reached his final test. And it’s up to them to defend him until he’s done. Or dead.

It’s good Solas and the Dreamer showed finally. She caught her fourth wind upon seeing them cut through the monstrous sea.

Her shield gets heavy in moments of peace in the battle. She prefers to be swarmed so she doesn’t notice how long she’s had it up. No other woman has shoulders quite like hers—no other woman bears a kite shield all day, and most nights. Thankfully, the Inquisitor customized this one with a stronger metal that’s lighter in weight, but anything can overwhelm if you hold onto it forever. She prays Varric gets over Bianca for Hawke’s sake.

The demons refuse to run and so she will not either. As long as Solas keeps up, and Feynriel doesn’t stab them in the back, they should endure.

A pride demon scoffs at her, rippling with electricity—how tiresome. She’s already killed two. Every kill brings knowledge of weak points and she knows them all. And she hasn’t even dug into Varric’s duster yet. She hopes it doesn’t smell as bad as she thinks.

“What’s the plan, Seeker?” Solas asks.

She watches Cole shift through the horde, breaking them down in bits, priming them for her. She will also not admit he’s useful, but perhaps he already knows what she thinks, and is kind not to mention it.

“We are to hold here,” she says, in between taunts to divert attention from Cole. “Until Varric comes back with Hawke.”

“You really are off your head,” Feynriel says.

Cassandra and Solas match glares but suddenly Feynriel disturbs her predisposition.

He grins. “For Hawke.” He spins his staff, then locks it behind along his shoulder, and enters a long front stance.

“Don’t miss,” she says.

“Haven’t yet.”

The boy from the tales of the Champion. After he left for Tevinter, no one knew what happened. She can guess now or find out just how he’s treated his gift of new life bestowed on him by Hawke in the field of battle. It’s where everyone learns who they really are, and everyone sees who they really are.

Solas drops a barrier.

Cassandra stares the pride demon down, eyes above her shield, sword ready along the side. Feynriel sticks to the bridge while Cole dances and disappears. And Solas stays between her and Feynriel. She accepts this strategy and charges the demon.

Goodbye…Blondie.

Should he have said that before he killed him? Nah. It wasn’t him. No need. But the demon was right. Through him is the only way forward. Where ever he finished dying off to, in his place opened a door, not like an Eluvian, more portal-ly. He’ll think of a better name for it later. Varric (approaches), no longer hearing his boots hit ground. The portal stretches and turns and strains across the arena, transforming what is empty and bright into enclosed and dark. Varric continues the walk, stepping along flat ground until it’s uneven and bumpy. Large pebbles replace the floor—they illuminate carved runes as he passes over. Then, they catch a heatless fire, and his lit path shoots ahead and brings the entire floor to life. A short, hooded being stands among them in the distance, underneath a looming shadow that manifests into the tallest tree Varric’s ever seen, trapped in a cliffside overseeing the runestones that travel upward, and space apart until the last one faintly lights at the top. The wall of twinkling runes activates the roots of the tree. Like blood, the light green glow courses along the veins of the bark, and turn on dozens of hanging eggs, shelled and transparent, held up by nets of vines—all empty, except one.

His tongue shrivels in his desert throat, his heart hammers his diaphragm, he doesn’t feel himself run—he soars to her.

“Hawke!”

His cry bounces off the cliff. He wouldn’t miss if he shot her down, but what if it breaks, then she breaks? What if he can’t catch her? He rips out a dagger from its sheath—throw it? No. Climbing pick? No.

The short hood hasn’t moved until now.

Varric decelerates and stops just underneath the egg, craning his neck. Hawke floats unconscious or, optimistically, sleeping with her bare body curled, knees to her chest, and arms locked around her legs.

“You,” Varric says. “Friend, foe. I don’t care. How do I get her down?”

The hooded man picks up a rune to examine it. He turns slightly and the rune illuminates his face. He’s older now, but the indistinguishable eyes belong to Bodahn Feddic’s son.

“Holy shit,” Varric says.

Sandal. “Hello.”

“What happened to Hawke?”

“Not enchantment.”

“Did you do this?”

“The old lady isn’t scary anymore.”

“Why is that?”

“She gave me friends.”

“Friends like…Feynriel?”

“I like Feynriel.” He twirls the rune palm-to-palm.

“What’s not to like besides the obvious?” Varric huffs.

“Hawke cannot be freed,” Sandal says.

His head swells with heat and the eggs fade as corners of his sight grow black.

“What?”

“Because you are not free.”

Sandal’s runes pour their light into a swirling mass around Varric, the eye of the storm. They catch him, slam him against the tree—pain sears from his head. Varric barely gets a glimpse of Sandal through the spirals propelling about.

He adds, “I can help you.”

The bark of the tree gives. Something creeps over his back, seeping him in.

“How does tying me help. This doesn’t look like help—to me—Sandal!”

Black liquid that shines back the galaxy coats him until his last breath—he gasps. The last thing he sees is the egg holding Hawke in a clear bubbling green, then nothing.

“Bye, Varric.”

The last thing he wanted to hear before he died was not Sandal’s fatalistic optimism. It wasn’t the sound of one thousand sobbing fans surrounding his deathbed. He always had this fantasy of lying on the biggest bed, next to the most beautiful woman who’s loved him for decades, and if he had lived long enough, over a half-century.

She squeezes his arm and rests her head on his shoulder, holding his hand, lying on her side. She kisses him on the cheek, breathes in, and says, “See you soon, handsome.” And if it ends up being the other way around: “Hold my beer.”

It’s not heaven if there’s no tavern, right?

Right?

Varric wrestles a sleep behind his eyes. A voice calls him a number of dwarven insults. He blinks; he grips his chest, and heaves in air, but there was never a need before, as if he woke up from a night of heavy stories and funny drinking. Wait.

He sits up from a small cobblestone path that trails up to meet a small—guess—on a small hill above a carpet of clouds. At the door stands an elf who abuses the term beast mode. He wears only the simple garments; Varric bets his muscles are the armor. Bianca remains on his back—good. He wouldn’t want to be too comfortable sleeping in the afterlife. After a quick shakedown, and brushing off the imaginary dust, he steps up to the muscle. The stone shimmers green and passes over the elf and the tavern, then skitters outward beyond the clouds.

“Password,” the elf says.

“Getting the feeling my princess is in another castle.”

“Wrong, pal. Back of the line.”

“What line?” Varric turns—a line is drawn on the ground, and behind it is a cliff descending infinitely. “Look. Okay, perhaps you’ve heard of me, seen me, or maybe you’ve seen my friend. She’s tall, moonlight skin, fitter than a guardsmen trainer.”

“No. Password or back of the line.”

“Hawke! Her name’s Hawke!”

He shakes his head.

“Varric Tethras.”

Head shakes.

“Fenris? Isabela?”

Head shakes.

“Worth a shot. How about ‘moist.’ Would be torture to say it out loud. You seem like a torturing…guy…no? Shit. Come on…persnickety?”

Muscle rolls his eyes and approaches, becoming a walking wall, pushing Varric closer to the cliff.

“Damn. Are you sure it’s not Varric?”

Muscle glares down through his aged markings.

“Vallaslin!”

He stops. Varric feels his boot heels leave the ground; he grasps the elf’s shirt.

“No,” he says.

Varric cries out, “No! Wait! V—v—vaseline!”

The elf snatches his collar and shoves him half-circle, then pushes him toward the tavern door.

“Go on in.”

After that he’ll be the biggest tipper they’ve ever had. Varric swings the door shut behind him. It’s a shanty place you’d find in a village, with the usual crowd of farmers, farmers’ workers, mercenaries, and servers who could be the farmer’s daughters, so you don’t mess with them. At the bar, an orange spirit waves Varric down. He should have noticed him first. Huh. As Varric accepts the invite to sit on the stool as tall as him, one of the servers comes by with a tray of drinks for a table. They cheer for her arrival and watch her river of dark hair run behind her as she leaves.

“Ale?” the spirit asks.

Varric turns and stares in the holes that would be eyes. “Sure. Who are you?”

“Shouldn’t you be asking ‘what is this place?’”

“I was getting there.”

He pours the drink, skillfully, with little foam meeting the rim. “I am the Spirit of Requirement.”

Varric sips. It’s brisk, sharp, a little fruity.

“And this place is a lock.”

“Who has the key?”

The spirit chuckles. “That’s a good one.”

“Here’s another good one: I just lost my friend to a nutso who trapped me in here when I was seconds from freeing her, after I spent finishing stupid puzzles, fighting endless demons, and murdering the remnant of a former friend, so unless you can get me the hell out, I’m gonna blow this place sky high with me inside.”

Someone chimes in, mouth still around the cup. “With what?” In the corner of his eye, a woman he didn’t see before sits a stool over. She slams the rest down and wipes her face.

Varric loosens his shoulders and ignores her, but without her knowing, she is right. He left all his grenades in the Fade.

Th spirit wipes the bar down. “In fact I can get you out, but I require something of you.”

Varric growls. “Of course.”

“Answers. If you wish to unlock the lock, you must complete a test.”

“If I opt out?”

“Then your friend remains locked away forever.”

“Ooof course.”

“Sandal said you would agree.”

“Sandal put you up to this?”

His chuckle itches under Varric’s skin. “Sandal created this.” He let the words hang. “You in?”

Varric shrugs. “Or it’s the back of the line for me. I’m in.”

The spirit picks up a box of bottles and disappears to a back room.

“Well, damn, Varric. I hoped you’d blow up this place.”

The woman again, with a full cup. He didn’t see the spirit re-pour. Varric tries not to roll his eyes when he faces her at last—

“Hawke?”

He would have recognized her. And her voice. How had he been so offhand? Had it been her the entire time? An mental wall blocks him from hugging her. Something’s off, like she wants nothing to do with him. Or anyone. He met a similar wall after her mother died, and when she killed Anders. He thought Fenris rubbed his standoffishness off on her. But this is worse. He grievously remains seated, a boot away; one knee nudge away.

“Yeah, Varric,” she grumps. “’Tis I, your failed champion.”

“Whoa, Hawke. How have you failed? Didn’t you read your own book?”

“I skimmed it. You’re a brilliant liar, Varric.”

“I gotta get you out of here. If this is really you, you’ve been here far too long.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Hawke, you have no idea what I’ve—”

“—‘been through!?’” She bangs her cup down and slops ale on the counter, and her hand. “I got a clue. Do you?”

He pleads. “Hawke…”

“Why should I leave? I couldn’t stop Corypheus. I couldn’t stop the demon. I couldn’t stop—”

Anders. He knows. And they dealt with that. Each problem arisen they solved it the best way they knew how. He’s told her countless times no one could have done better. How does he tell her again?

“Everything I do is pointless. Everything that I think is good is madness. So tell me, master storyteller, why should I leave?”

Varric loses every thought, every twist of phrase, and cunning gesture. Everything he is no longer exists except how he looks. And how he looks in front of her is a man with a vacant expression.

Because.

Words slip off his tongue. “Because my life can’t go on without you in it.” A cool breeze coasts through the windows, catching strands of Hawke’s hair in the current, but washing the heated emptiness creeping inside himself. “You think you have failed yet after all the problems kick you down, I watch you get up, and it’s not because you’re stubborn, or stupid, it’s because you love this world. You love the people. You love. And so do I. And love—love never fails.”

She bites her lip to fight the tear swells breaching her glossy eyes.

“I didn’t think I could ever love again,” she says. “But I never stopped.”

Hawke cautiously reaches for him—he takes her hand.

Another hand comes down hard on his shoulder. “Hey!”

“Aren’t you spoken for, dwarf?”

Varric looks behind and a tall stranger with a three-day shadow stares down. He resembles Gamlen although much younger, and far stronger based on the fingers digging in his collar. He winces.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, pal, but you better get off me.”

Great. Now there’s more of them; twisted features based on everyone Hawke knows, including Anders, and some from the Merchant’s Guild. He thought the business was a bit too friendly.

Hawke pitches in. “You’re mistaken, gentlemen. His only other love is his crossbow.”

“He didn’t tell ya?” They laugh. “He didn’t tell her. She’s not just a crossbow, she’s a person; a dwarven person.”

Another adds, “A lady dwarven person.”

“Varric,” she says, with a look that could make a cactus cry. “Last one to fall buys the drinks!”

Hawke swings—she lands an elbow into the man holding him, cracking against his jaw, and toppling him over several stools. A renewed energy surges through him and he snatches two guilders to smash their temples together, then kicks them in the stones.

Everyone flies at them, swinging foolishly, falling over themselves as they run into their fists, kicks, and throws, until Hawke tosses the last man onto the pile of losers. She rubs her back, then shakes out her wrists.

“Didn’t even need my staff,” she brags.

“Just like ol’ times—umph!”

Varric finds himself on the floor with his cheek burning and a sharp pain through his molars. He holds his face and looks up at her. She unclenches her fist, snarling.

“What is love when it is not?” She doesn’t give him an answer. She nurses her knuckles, and continues,“I always knew there was someone else in your life behind the crossbow. Frankly, I appreciated the mystery than finding out. But everyone knows now, and truth is, I don’t want to be second place again.”

“She broke my heart, Hawke.”

“You can say all those wonderful things about love, you can even say she’s out and I’m in, but no matter where you go, there she is. At least I made the choice to let go and move on.”

“Well,” Varric croaks, “at least it’s not my age you’re turning down.”

By the time he has the courage to look at her again, she’s gone, as are the bodies, and the Spirit of Requirement stands beside a blue spirit, who addresses Varric as he helps him to stand.

“I am the Spirit of Sadness. You helped Hawke overcome her grief but failed to prove your love.”

“Wh—what can I do? Did I fail the test? Let me take it again! Please!”

“Relax,” Requirement says. “You failed once. What do you do now?”

“I—” He looks at Sadness. “Get back up.”

“Learning from each other’s strengths and weaknesses is a required synergy,” Requirement says, “and you passed.”

“Not only did Sandal create the lock, and entrust us to protect it, but he entrusted Feynriel’s dream skills, and manifested them into what you see now, a place of learning to maximize your end goal.”

“You mean rescuing Hawke,” Varric says.

“No,” he responds sternly. “You may leave for the next part of the test.”

And without moving, he appears outside the tavern. Muscle’s gone and more hills have popped above the cloudline, linked with rope bridges. A loud thoom shakes the hills, then another, stronger than the first, and another, stronger than before. To Varric’s left, a hilltop covered in black overgrowth sways through the clouds.

Thoom. Thoom.

The hill stretches taller, and overgrowth turns out to be hair, then a forehead, eyes, and nose.

He knew all those sweets would someday make Hawke big.


	14. Enrichments Not Entrapments

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for delay. School's out and writing time shortens as sun lengthens. Please enjoy!

 

Along the endless hills, running across every bridge, line up people of every race from every country, chasing her down, waving their hands, and screaming to get her attention. The closer he gets to her, the more he trudges through arms, avoiding elbows to the face, and catching himself before he trips over feet. Scattered villagers pleading for help become a rushing river of demanders from nobility. They wear fineries and stand taller than the rest, but no one can measure to the mobile giant hill of Hawke. Not once does she look toward them; she’s enjoying wading through the clouds as they swirl and change design by the slightest pressure. She smiles, embracing the sun.

Varric runs across the bridges, in between groups massing towards her.

“My daughter! She is sick and could die any day! Please!”

“Hawke! Seneschal Bran sent word that you are needing at the keep. Please return to Kirkwall!”

“My second cousin’s niece faces Templar persecution! Don’t you know who I am? You must assist me!”

The endless cycle rings even after he pushes through the group closest to her—she’s stopped to bask, the back of her head meters away, the edge to bottomless fall only centimeters. Varric grips onto nobles who barely notice him. They yell in his ear, mouse squeaks to Hawke. The shampoo she used at her estate lingers, a sweet vanilla blend with orange oil. She bought it and several other luxuries when he took her to the Sunday market. (The Chantry’s way of collecting donations with mutual benefit. They make these candles that change color…anyway.) The noble on his left bellows the falsehood that Hawke left his son to die during the Qunari assault—the sunflared ears return to a pale opaqueness as she turns. Her nose could be a child’s slide, her rosy cheeks a double king sized bed for Varric. When she faces them, her bright irises stare straight across—not at the nobles, and definitely not at the villagers.

“Varric?” she says.

Hawke whips her head back with a hiss, like something bit her, then forward with a yelp, and she reaches down.

“Hawke?” he cries, and he cries her name again when she screams, and disappears under the clouds.

He wants to help but every part surging with blood orders him to do something—anything but jump.

“She’s worthless. She stubs her toe and ignores me! Me!”

Varric sees Me on the ground, holding his nose, looking up in shock, close to tears; Varric shakes the sting from his knuckles, and the relief of defending honor. An ache in his shoulder subsides but any discomfort dies when Hawke’s hand shoots up, and slaps the cliff’s edge, crushing the ants—he jumps out of her forefinger’s way, falling on his back, cursing.

The hill cracks in front of his boots.

Hawke yells in pain, deafening the royal beggars scrambling for their lives. They swarm the bridge, trying to run across, running over the tripped ones, The suspensions snap—a choir of screams fade indefinitely. Varric looks back where the other bridge used to be—

“Shit.”

He rolls to stand and Hawke’s hand slides out of view, painting a red carpet exclusively out of Me and a few others. Rest in peace, leeches.

In a deep breath, her hand returns, and he forgets to exhale as she just misses him again, but the crack in the ground splits, and breaks—Varric claws the grass and scrambles off the chunk not falling with Hawke’s hand. But every piece he takes crumbles to the abyss. So he makes his last jump count—and leaps for a finger before she disappears again. Air cools the sweat as he falls, and smacks hard against a bony knuckle. He latches onto the meat between her first and middle, his cheek pressing against her skin.

After a long line of curse words, Varric manages to wrap around one finger for better grip, and takes the ride down below the clouds, but not before he slips when pieces of cliff hit him, and he rolls down her arm, missing the safety of her sleeve, and reaches for any wrinkle that could stop him before—

He falls through the air, wisps of white zoom past, and linger around his feet. He watches the top-half of Hawke shrink as he plummets along her torso, her waist, her hips—she takes a step and her belt is just in reach—his fingers graze it, he smacks into the softness just above her thigh. He catches himself on the fabric lining, and slides to a heart-pounding stop right on the hem of her robe.

He hugs it tightly, gulping air as he watches the unveiling horror below. Armed mobs throw spears and shoot arrows, pinning her legs like a choir boy at a chantry board.

At least her clothes smelled nice.

Varric had thought he had it bad back in the Fade with the army of demons. This is Thedas corralling her—all the people she met and never seen fire at her and he has nothing to fire back. All he’d be able to do…

…he has to get down there, at least enough for them to hear him.

“You better be wearing underwear,” he says.

He gathers strength and prepares the absurdity of his plan. Varric builds momentum. Growing up on the surface, he got to do a lot of things “real” dwarves couldn’t, like play on a swing his dad built in the community park by their house. What Father didn’t know is he used that park to meet other kids. Didn’t matter if they were noble or sneaking up from the Alienage. That and helping the tavern clean when Mother overdrank her tab. He cared little for his brother’s prattling about nobility. “You should just pay them so you don’t have to clean, ya nug wrangler.” Bartrand never got it—it isn’t about money.

Varric kicks his feet out and releases the hem, and braces for her thigh—if he misses, it’s a building-length to her knee, and he’s liable to break something. None of her attackers have been able to launch a spear high enough for him to use as a hold, but his coat sticks just enough to her skin, so he eases himself down to the rolled sock over her boot. Once he tucks himself in securely, he waves his arms at the crowd.

“Hey! Hey!”

Not many, but a couple notice him on his strange balcony.

“She’s holding Varric hostage! Damn Fereldans!”

“Knock it off!” Varric shouts. “What in Andraste’s name are you doing!?” He holds the mob’s attention for now. Make it count. He points to a redheaded elf. “Didn’t I ship your cargo when everyone else refused you?” He looks over at a woman in tattered clothes. “Aw that was the dress your mother made you before her last birthday. What happened?”

“My husband happened,” she says.

“I thought I shot him.”

“No, that was my lover.”

“Oh. Well, how about I get you a new one? A dress, I mean.” Varric calls out several others, waves down people about to shoot Hawke again. “I recognize every person here, so why are you all attacking my friend? Don’t answer. Look, I knew a lot of you when we were kids. When I met Hawke, her coin purse could fit in a nug’s butthole—” Good, he can still make a crowd laugh. “—but not one of you took the time to know her then. Not one of you wanted to. You just wanted her to fix your problems when you saw she was able.”

“She’s not listening to us!”

“So you’re making her? You have the means to shoot and yell when you could’ve been using that to solve your own messes? Why don’t you all fix each other? Look what you’ve done. You’ve managed to organize yourselves into a nice little army. Imagine what you could do if you used that for yourselves, rather than hurt who I care about.”

They talk amongst themselves with wrinkled brows, and snarls.

One human steps up. “We don’t know what you’re talking about. We’re here to run her out of the city cuz she’s too big!”

“Wait, you’re not trying to get her to save you?”

“Save us? She destroyed the city!”

They point back and Varric follows the fingers. This entire time he thought this was a field. He looks closer, peering over the mob—rubble is scattered all over, and beyond the field is what’s left of a large, ancient cosmopolitan harbor city. His city.

“Oh.”

“Get her out of here!” the human roars to the mob.

So he made a mistake; still isn’t right what either side is doing. His balcony shifts. Hawke’s probably noticed the momentary cease-fire by now

“We tried talking with the city guard and they blew us off!” someone else says.

Another says, “she gets away with everything!”

Varric picks at the fibers hugging him. “I see. You do know Hawke is the only one that can single-handedly pick up the city block, and put it back together.

“She’s part of the problem!”

“So’s a snakebite until you need the venom for the antidote. Let me talk to Hawke. You can save your spears when another war breaks out.”

Where were all these people during the Mage Rebellion? They could have taken down Meredith’s statues like starved piranhas. (With legs and spears, though.)

Varric wiggles out of the sock and is about to climb the pegged leg when Hawke scoops him up—he flattens out on her palm as the gush of wind catches his coat, and his nerves shake from the feeling that he might fly off. It’s the strangest thing he’s ever lied on—a wrinkled bed without sheets but an internal warmer. In the creases, he spots a five-point star along the middle line.

It doesn’t take long to reach the clouds again, but the rush stirs up the snacks he ate before the trip.

“Varric,” Hawke mutters, “you didn’t have to do that.”

“What did I do?”

“You stood up for me. But…Kirkwall…”

He looks back, the rubble looms under the settling dust.

“We can fix that,” he says. “Can the mighty Hawke be a crane for a day?”

“Oh don’t you pun with me, dwarf. I got legs for days that would stomp you flat with puns.”

“Weeks, maybe.”

Hawke brightens with sunrays, and an ethereal form takes her place, a spirit with long straight hair formed like a hooded robe. Her serene grin a solid contrast to Hawke’s wild smile. She releases him—his heart jumps at first, then he sees she’s allowing him the dignity to float down than be carried. She follows, downsizing as they go, and she returns to another spirit form, this one a bright orange.

“I am the spirit of fame,” she says. “A legendary woman like Hawke lives in a fickle world and needs a dependable foundation, not only to rest, but to grow roots, and know security.”

Requirement materializes next to her.

He chimes in, “You stood up for Hawke despite her being in the wrong, when everyone was against her, thus, proving your dependability, and unwavering loyalty. This world has enough stone-throwers. It’s up to the partner to hold fast. You have proven that and I can see why Sandal formulated this specifically for you.”

“I’m flattered,” Varric says, “and, admittedly, still confused.”

“Sandal may be different but he is not blind. Bodahn showed him qualities only a loving family harbor and also saw them in you.”

“Staying at the Hawke estate opens your eyes to lots of things.”

“We’re not here to hinder, Master Tethras,” Fame says, “but to show you how to be the man Hawke needs. Or all your efforts will be wasted despite the happy ending.”

“I always wondered what happens beyond ‘and they lived—insert annoyingly cheerful adverb—ever after.’”

“You won’t find out,” Fame says, “if you keep rereading chapters.”

“Words harder than Cassandra’s elbow.”

Requirement adds, “True words but none more painful than learning from them. This is your final test.”

Varric surveys the same sky, ground, and lack of Hawke. “Nothing’s changed.”

“Nothing will until you do.”

Both spirits vanish after that burn, leaving Varric with Hawke’s mob. He takes a breath, thinking how he can get out of a fight, or lynching. Leather tanned with a warm, floral scent freezes him, cutting off every thought, flooding his head with faded memories resharpened by a quick sniff. Varric turns around—the city and crowd are gone, but one remains, and she smiles at him like nothing hasn’t changed.


	15. Enouncements Not Enticements

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I Don't Wanna Love Somebody Else" by A Great Big World
> 
> Oh, I built a world around you  
> Oh, you had me in a dream,  
> I lived in every word you said  
> The stars had aligned  
> I thought that I found you  
> And I don't wanna love somebody else
> 
> Oh, we left it all unspoken  
> Oh, we buried it alive  
> And now it's screaming in my head  
> Oh, I shouldn't go on hoping  
> Oh, that you will change your mind  
> And one day we could start again  
> Well I don't care if loneliness kills me  
> I don't wanna love somebody else
> 
> Oh, I thought that I could change you  
> Oh, I thought that we would be the greatest story that I tell  
> I know that it's time to tell you it's over  
> But I don't wanna love somebody else

 

The sickly ache he feels would have dropped any man. If the King of Ferelden suddenly heard the death of his Love from across the country, then saw her appear before him as if a ghost, but real—that’s what this feels like. Except she never died. Just his dreams crushed by reality and political bullshit.

“Is staring all you’re gonna do, Varric?”

Even her sultry voice slips under the radar until it stabs, and you wonder why your heart is bleeding.

“Bianca,” he says. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Of course I should. I’m the one person that’s standing between you and a league of assassins.”

“Pardon?”

“They’re in the rubble of Kirkwall. Hawke didn’t tell you? She was trying to stop them. They’re hard to squash, little blighters. Buildings, though, so much easier.” She picks up a rock, inspects it, then tosses it behind her with a smirk.

He eyes the indentations in the dirt where she wrestled the rock from its sleep. The field lies bare beneath their boots, and though they stand at a duel’s pace, he feels they’re at both ends of the expanse.

“This isn’t real,” he mumbles on repeat.

“What isn’t? This? You could be right. But there are times when you aren’t right at all.” Bianca’s whites of her eyes blacken. “And the choices you make affect us all.”

He’s had enough of demons and spirits today.

“Here we go again. Look, ‘Bianca,’ wasn’t my choice to cower under my family’s oppression by dumping you at the altar. That was all you. Do you know how many shots I can take before I go down? Do you know how many assassins I meet on the road? I’m still here.”

“It doesn’t have to be like that anymore, Varric. No more assassins. No more fighting. Just peace, inventions, and writing. You and me. I left to save you. I didn’t know you’d be taking on assassins even with Hawke around. So why don’t you just make a choice for both of us.”

“Is this the spirit of choice, I’m talking to?”

“Goodness, no. A spirit cannot change your life—your fate.”

“Another demon, then.”

“Hardly. I am so much more. Everything you’ve ever wanted, it will be real once you leave Hawke’s dreams. All you have to do is choose.”

The black in Bianca’s eyes vanishes and she flutters her eyelids as if waking from a daze. From the ground, the blackness pushes upward, forming Hawke, leaving her standing next to Bianca. Left, right, his eyes can’t keep still. This isn’t real. Air chases itself through his nose until that light-headedness grips, and he watches a tunnel wrap about his vision. He shakes it away. This isn’t real. This isn’t real. Between Hawke and Bianca, another body arises, cold skin, dark hair, not the Spirit of Fame, or Choice, or a demon, but an angel. This isn’t real. This isn’t real. This isn’t real.

The angel from his cards.

“You almost have a full suit,” the angel says.

Varric can’t tell if this angel of Death is trying to be Hawke who would look like a man, or a woman who would resemble Hawke without a gender. She stands without clothes but without anything to show off.

He waves her away. “I’m done. I’m not playing this game.”

“Your bluff, but if you leave, everything falls. Hawke, Sandal, everyone in the Fade, everyone in the real Fade, will die. Even the tree.”

“Screw the tree.”

“Oh you care about the tree.”

“How did you get in here?”

“Where Hawke goes I linger. She’s quite the lady, Always knew I was close by but not once challenged me. She just seemed to…accept me…and continued on.”

“She lives life to the fullest.”

“That she does. Which attracted me to her. I’m not a bad person. In fact, Hawke and I are similar. We cherish life. We want it to mean something. We want to see people have a purpose. We want them to be happy.”

“Until you end it.”

“Until it’s time. I’m a gatekeeper. When they’re ready, I open the way.”

“It’s okay to own you’re a murderer. I’ve killed many.”

“In self-defense, I know this. And when they try to kill you, and nearly succeed, I could have let you through the gate, several times. But you stand challenging me. Bravo.”

“Challenge you? You approached me.”

“To give you a chance at a new life. A fresh start.”

“Entice me, then.” He half-bows. “You had me at ‘or I’ll kill everyone.’”

The angel waves theatrically over Bianca, then Hawke, then both, then blackness.

Bianca approaches him out of the dark in a white wedding dress patched with mud, and splatters of blood. Varric looks around. They’re in a chapel with dwarven tapestries mingling with Chantry symbols between towering windows, stained with depictions of angels, and one in particular. The town fills the pews, noble dwarves, and noble humans gather in the balconies above. Everyone but Bartrand made it. Everyone except Hawke, really. Everyone except her companions as well.

“So sorry, I’m late!” she says. “Had to beat off some assassins but I’m here! I’m here!”

The crowd applauds, some laugh. Understandable that no man or woman could ever wear a perfect white dress in their age.

“Did you convince Mom and Dad to make it?”

“Yeah! They’re in the back!”

She points—her parents are tied and gagged with only eyebrows to express their fury.

“Let’s do this, Varric!”

She takes his hands. He wears studded white gloves and his version of what a wedding suit should look like, spotless silk tunic with black boots, and black sash. And just in case there was trouble, he placed sock knives in both boots, and four throwing daggers up his sleeves. But Bianca took care of the problem: her parents and the assassins. For once, they could live together ever after. Bianca smiles sweetly at him and the priest begins.

Blackness engulfs the chapel—Bianca leaves him with the last feeling of her fingers in his hands. He would’ve said “I will” to every question the priest laid on him. And if this is in Hawke’s dream, real angel or not, Hawke knows too. She always knew. Is that why she never came forward? Is that why he didn’t? Bianca the wall; Bianca the what-if.

If Bianca hadn’t existed at all…

Stucco and wooden pillars burst from up from the dark. Tables and stools appear around a bar, boards fill the floor, and carry Varric upward as they make the stairs to drop him off at his suite. He shakes away the vertigo, then pats himself down, the emptiness on his back drains heat from his face. He’s left with daggers but where’s—ah. He left her hanging on the wall, closest to the door; he must have forgot to grab it. After all, Bianca is just the name of his crossbow now. He didn’t have to make up stories to hide the truth. Bianca is the crossbow. That’s it. Thanks to Gerav the only strings attached go to his limbs, not love.

Laughter erupts from inside and he walks in—Hawke’s entourage spoils his room with smiles, and bellies full of ale. Even Merrill tries a standard stein, though she needs two hands and Fenris’ help to drink it. They might hate each other but Hawke always had a way of uniting rivals to achieve an end. This end? Getting drunk, apparently.

“I got the rope. Mages only this round.” Fenris says. “You in, Merrill? Anders?”

“Oh my; I don’t think it’d be winning if I’m the short one.”

“What’s this called again?” Anders asks.”

“The Archon’s Staff.”

“Tevinter is a bunch of party animals.”

“I used to clean up the vomit during their blood sacrifices.”

Anders makes a face. “I drank enough. I’ll happily decline, thanks.”

“I’m gonna do it!” Hawke cries, wiping foam from her mouth. “Gonna do it. Give it here!”

Varric angles himself to see the fuss over the table, but they obscure whatever game they’re playing. No cards involved—something new?”

“Remember, say you’re becoming wise, not drunk. If you say drunk, the current cup doesn’t count, and you have to drink another to make the staff.”

“Oh my goodness. I’m gonna be the wisest mage in all Thedas!”

“Okay, I gotta ask,” Varric calls out, “What are you all doing?”

Before he gets a chance to look at Hawke, she ducks behind Anders, and Merrill, Fenris, and Isabela close the gap in front to become a wall.

“Troll! Troll in the dungeon! Call for Aveline! She’s failed us! The enemy has breached the kingdom!”

Varric stands by one of his bookshelves; it’s decorated with party favors.

He asks, “What in Andraste’s charity purse are you talking about?”

“You can’t be here, Varric,” Isabela says, “it’s bad luck!”

“Say I forgot the day I had today. Why would it be bad luck?”

“He’s so wasted he left his own party.” Isabela laughs. “What a riot. Well, if Aveline hasn’t sent out a search brigade, I’m sure it’s okay to sneak the groom in to see the bride.”

“What happened to bad luck?”

“Varric, we are the bad luck.”

Fenris and Merrill break away and Hawke peeks out from Anders’ feathers. He coughs and steps aside, revealing Hawke in her casual finery, laced with dyed paper decor. A sash slings over her shoulder that reads “soon to be a Tethras” in hastily-painted black letters.

From her stupor, she locks eyes with him—she can still take his breath away even while wearing a cut-out parchment crown with drawn-on jewels. Varric glimpses at her hand; she wears his father’s signet ring on her thumb, and the engagement ring he apparently gave her. Not the one Solas hopefully still has now.

She smiles.

In all the visions and crazy shit he’s seen all his life, that smile confirms everything he used to think is wrong. Where everyone wishes fortune and favors, blames bad and good solely on luck, and not once giving credit where credit should be given. He knows now.

There is no such thing as luck.

Thank the Maker.

Curse the angel who brings back the dark.

She steps forward, lighting the bodies of Hawke and Bianca, who stare off somewhere as if in a stasis, and then stands beside Varric.

“Choose,” she says.

As if it’s that easy.

“Both choices are calamitous,” she adds. “But both are filled with unbelievable joy.”

“That’s subjective.”

“No choice at all brings the fall of everything.”

“Because of you.”

“No. Because of you. Hawke said it, that you find taking responsibility difficult. You avoid conflict yet by avoiding you create more. Not saying you eventually own up, but I am saying that Hawke cannot move on unless you choose. Her circumstance is unique. The tree grew from her personality, and all her memories, fears, and joys reside in this tree. She’s locked in her own mind, but she can’t be free unless you are free from yours.”

“I don’t have a tree.”

“Your mind, you daft rogue. Choose.” She floats behind him and haunts him even if he can no longer see her—that feeling. Did Hawke always have this dread? How could she be at peace with something that is meant to kill her? If he doesn’t choose soon, the Fade will overwhelm Cassandra and the others. If he doesn’t choose at all, the Fade will kill them.

So, this is the way Hawke forces Varric to choose. Girls are so cryptic.

He could choose Hawke, Bianca would be just a name, and all their companions would have celebrated together, bickering but happy, before the betrayals struck, and no assassins constantly at his back. But the lessons he learned throughout life, throughout Hawke’s, would vanish, and the dwarf he was before would be different from the dwarf now.

He could choose Bianca, live the life he dreamed of storytelling and money flowing, his wife revolutionizing the world with her inventions that could bring about a steam-powered age, with little dwarves running around their mansion. But Hawke and the others weren’t at the wedding. And assassins wouldn’t stop unless her parents ordered a desist. It doesn’t mean Hawke wouldn’t exist, but his passions wouldn’t be committed to Hawke’s cause when they did meet.

“Ding-dong, dwarf,” the Angel of Death says. “Time’s up. Not really. Just tired of waiting and can see your friends on the other side are struggling. Who’s it gonna—“

“Bianca.”

As if a spear skewered both of them, they stare at each other. She looks as shocked as his heart burst saying it.

“Pardon?”

“I choose Bianca.”

“Wh—why?”

“Because…” Varric reflects. “…I wouldn’t know heartbreak without her.” He sighs. “Do I have to explain myself? Look, changing the past—it just gets ugly. Without who I was, I cannot be who I am. I’ll take my previous choices and live with the burden. Every strapping hero has an ex or three.”

“I didn’t expect that.” She blinks. “You mortals always surprise me. And it’s funny because I asked Hawke the same question without threat of mass murder. She chose too.”

“Oh yeah? Who did she choose?”

“You can ask her when she wakes. Oh, but, one thing, because you chose Bianca…it’s gonna be kinda hard to get her out of the tree. Just saying.”

Blackness. Dammit.

Death exclaims, “Good luck!”

Varric fires back, “There’s no such thing!”

One thing is true to his beliefs: the billowing rage that’s been bubbling under his skin with every hindrance, obstacle, stupid, little test, is about to erupt.


	16. The Chains to Break

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs: "Silent Sparrow" from Big Hero 6, "From the Wreckage" from Mass Effect.

 

“Start your men here,” Fenris says, pointing at the main bailey drawn in an unrolled map pinned on the war table. “It may not be just the Eluvian these demons breach.”

Dorian stands opposite, where the Advisors and Logan stand around him, not that it would save him from the big sword the length of the elf. The packed room is not what the usual crowd is accustomed to, and it flusters Cullen more when they seem to be telling him what to do in his own keep. However, they explained a while back that another elf, Merrill, has seen things (no really), and if they don’t intervene, Varric’s adventure will end with a memorial inside Skyhold. That’s why they’re here, not Josephine’s party invitations.

Merrill prefers the earthly tones like he does, but strays from the finer fabrics, more possibly because she looks like she’s been in her own little world, and doesn’t care if she lives in a hovel, or a tent. Maybe even a hole in a field where she can frolic. Dorian skepticizes what all she can see but he does not doubt the sincerity in her voice. She believes it. And she’s seen the second worst assault that she’s known—her first? No idea. But he guesses she’s walked the Fade and asked a few questions. The rest of this Fenris fellow’s team appears orthodox for people from Kirkwall. Aveline, Captain of the Guard, is as they say: fierce. And the main reason these strangers are allowed in the war room at all, as Cullen trusts her. He also knows the Templar, Carver. It seems a few templars survived since the Inquisitor doomed them to Corypheus. But from his attitude, maybe Corypheus spat him back out. Honestly, he doesn’t know how Varric didn’t pin him to a wall for how he talks about Hawke, or anybody. Truly. And it’s not even clever.

There would have been more, but Aveline explained that some of Hawke’s companions left under circumstances. Isabela never came back with the tome the Arishok wanted, and Sebastian would have stayed, since Anders was put to real justice, but his determination to take back his land (“Horse shit,” Aveline has said) overruled his loyalty to Hawke. Which is good because Varric’s shots are straighter anyway, whatever that means.

To bolster the ranks, Aveline and Carver brought a few of their people along, although not much, considering what Kirkwall heard of Corypheus, they had fewer volunteers to cross the sea, and fight the chaos. Cullen was appreciative, even patted her shoulder. Dorian never gets pats on his shoulder.

Apparently his whine caught the room’s attention, and a few stare at him.

“I’m sorry, am I being too melancholic?” Dorian says.

Every look from the former Tevinter slave stabs, but that perfectly proportioned face—he can’t stop staring back. Dorian clears his throat.

“Something on your mind?” Fenris says, but Dorian hears the rest of it: “mage;” “Vint dog.”

“No. Continue.” Just a bit of tension, some passive aggression, stuck in his throat. Nothing to worry about.

Fenris glares, probably hearing the rest of that too.

“We need everyone willing to go into the Fade, and hopefully, join them as quickly as possible.”

Merrill steps up, her eyes dart about the table, not looking anyone in the eye, but seeing something beyond them. “We’ll have to move quickly through the only Eluvian we have. It’s a long way from where they are, but I know a shortcut. I’ve seen it. And Varric opened the doors for us already. We’ll make it. But we have to go now.”

“Then stop talking,” Fenris says. “Let’s move.”

Logan interrupts, “I’m coming too.”

Heads spin. Moreso the Advisors.

Cullen pales. “Inquisitor, I advise against it.”

“It’s my responsibility. All this wouldn’t have happened if I chose the Grey Warden.”

“You were sure—you said—Inquisitor, you can’t—” His voice breaks. “I can’t.”

Suddenly everyone finds the walls and ceiling far more interesting. There’s an eye in this slab of tree that looks like it’s staring back.

Cullen mutters. “I can’t go through knowing I may never see you again.”

“That’s every day,” she says. “Every day I feel like that. And I threw that feeling on Varric. And it came true. He may never see her again. I have to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

“Then you’re not leaving without me.” He grins.

Leliana hides a giggle, but Dorian sees the pink in her cheeks and the sparkle in her murderous eyes. The truth is out: we’re all suckers for romance.

Fenris motions his Kirkwall clan and the Inquisitor’s Guard to follow him back to the Eluvian, but when he opens the door, he looks down. Something—someone blocks his way.

“Who the hell are you?” Fenris snaps.

“So this is where the party is.” A sassy voice springs through the crowd. “Can I tag along?”

Dorian’s Tevinter blood drains into a churning wheelhouse pumped by his stomach. He turns to Josephine and she’s holding her mouth. She gives him that look and knows exactly what’s on her mind:

Time’s up.

“Seeker!” Solas cries, dodging an electric lash, and leaping over a line of frost.

Cassandra drops to a knee, panting, blood and sweat cascading her cheeks. He drops some Healing Mist, and this Healing potion must be the twentieth one he’s donated to her.

He’s never seen such resilience. It’s been hours the press on him like days. He could complain and blame it on the sleep inertia, but these are mortals, taking on what is meant to be a matching army, and it’s a measly group of bleeding hearts for a lost cause. Varric has yet to return and they remain. But if the demons have not ceased, then Hawke remains. That must be the power he senses; it continues to grow the longer they hold this point. How? Why? If he weren’t fending for everyone’s lives, he’d prod the Dreamer for answers, but maybe he doesn’t even know. It could be that he senses it as well; there’s no way of telling with these younger elves, especially the half-breeds. It is certain, however, that the power Hawke grows, is a power he is unfamiliar with, and it may or may not benefit them when she awakens.

Yes. When.

“How long has it been!?” the Dreamer shouts at Cassandra.

“A couple minutes maybe!” she barks back.

“How long will it be?”

“As long as we hold out!” Solas roars over as he blinks away with his ring.

“Did Andraste deal with anything like this?”

Cassandra swallows.

“Varric!” The Dreamer calls. “Hurry up!”

Varric swats at the blackness, hoping it’ll buzz off. Instead, Requirement materializes, along with another new spirit, who addresses itself as Acceptance.

“Congratulations,” Requirement says. “You passed the final test.”

The spirit of Acceptance explains, “You understand life more than many, that our choices are what define us, and our lust can distract us from what matters most: using the time we have left to enjoy the quality of love we have built—”

The spirits move aside and glowing roots creep into the darkness, and slither across what Varric considers flooring. The black ripples and reflects the sea green light, illuminating an image of the tree under his feet, where Hawke hangs upside-down with the dozens of other eggs, reaching upward like an overly-intricate candelabra.

“—and grown.”

Varric pokes the floor. It shimmers like the pools in the cave. Sandal’s runes fade in, littering the black with symbols. Whether this Angel of Death was real or not doesn’t matter now. The real Hawke is down there.

“Is this the way out?” Varric says.

“It is the step to your freedom,” Requirement says.

“Is it my sodding exit? Yes or no?”

The spirit sighs. “Yes. But—”

Varric jumps, arms crossed, feet together, hoping it’s like diving into water. More like falling into the sky upside-down but right-side-up. No more buts, no more tests, no more roadblocks. Varric sees Sandal, who looks at him from the runed floor, and the same old grin. Varric splashes out of the ground boots first—he faces Hawke in the egg—still asleep. He hovers a moment. He touches the green shell—it’s more like skin, elastic and strong for holding all that inside. Hawke’s breathing bubbles float downward—upward to her.

The Fade recognizes him—gravity works. He flips and falls on his stomach. The runes add to injury and he moans, wishing Sandal made runic pillows instead.

“The scary demons are here,” Sandal says, looking back at a vast space of nothing.

Varric gets up and shouts Hawke’s name, shaking the trunk, pulling on vines, trying anything that should have already woken her. He cusses at Requirement, then Death, then the rest of the spirits if they are still in her head.

“You said this was it! You said it’d help Hawke! Wake up!”

He swings Bianca around, arms, aims, and shoots, striking the skin close to Hawke’s feet, but the arrow drops to the ground—skin undamaged. He never misses, so he tries above her head, where the egg’s attached to several vines gripping the top. Arrow bounces back—he checks the tension and flight groove but not much to check when it’s an automatic. If his piercing rounds aren’t working, nothing else will, and that thought boils his face so hot he can feel the hairs popping out of his jaw. He throws the damned crossbow to the ground—crack—but something else breaks. He looks up.

Hawke’s egg splits, a crack descends along the skin; liquid drips at the bottom.

Varric stares at the crossbow.

He chose Bianca.

Green lightning crackles across the nothingness behind him.

“They know!” Sandal cries.

Lightning crackles again, thicker, brighter—it sizzles the throughout the nothing until it eats it all. Whatever shield Sandal had on the place is dead and Varric stares back at his companions, his friends, barely holding the largest army of demons, spanning back into the field of the Fade until they’re just moving dots. Cassandra throws a Confusion grenade into a group of smaller demons while they focus on the Greater Terror screeching on top of a pile of dead Pride demons.

Solas shouts something at Cassandra and she looks back at Varric. His voice catches up with the distance between: “The seal is breached!”

“Fight on!” Cassandra answers between a deflect and attack.

They still fight after all this time of him dealing with spirits and puzzles and other madness, they take on the worst of it. And here he is, standing in front of a beaten up crossbow, wanting to be loved by the prettiest girl he’s ever known, and the first one went off, and married someone else. Cassandra’s words resonate. Get over her. He picks up Bianca.

Varric slams Bianca into the floor. Hawke’s egg cracks again. Something swells—a rush inside—and he wants more. He picks her up again and slams her down. The third time doesn’t satisfy so he moves her to the tree, swinging her in to chop some wood, be it the tree or the bow limbs. The littlest pieces break off first, and the limbs dangle off the strings, scarcely holding. Springs pop out of the shaft when it splits at last—he only notices how good it feels to be angry. Livid. And able to let the hurt out—the the rage of years of dealing with other people’s problems and never letting go. It ravages the foregrip until it’s nothing but splintered wood and bent metal—it pops off the stock when he finally cracks Bianca in two—a hard feat. It would have been easier to dismantle the whole thing but would have zero satisfaction. He remembers the quiver is full when something whirrs inside. His explosive rounds.

He throws Bianca up in the branches, hoping Hawke doesn’t get the full blast, and he runs for it—Bianca strikes the tree, there’s a click—BOOM. Red and orange burst from within, and it rains smoldering slivers and chunks of Bianca. The scope falls first, then the rest scatter about beneath the unsinged tree.

It’s done.

He’s free.

A waterfall of green pours from the egg.

Hawke stirs.

Weeks of mourning and days of pursuit become worth it. A Waking Sea of relief washes away the pain, the aches, the fatigue, bringing a refreshed soul back to life, unshackled.

The skin breaks when Hawke hits the bottom of the egg.

He rushes toward her.

He holds his arms out.

He leaps.

He stretches out.

She falls into him.

He rolls before he runs into the tree, his shoulders take the brunt. He squeezes. She’s cool and wet and zero clothes but she is real. She is here. His Hawke is alive.

She gasps, taking in air since probably forever. Then, she examines herself, looks up at what remains of her egg, then looks everywhere else but Varric. He hears her heart race and tries not to look at her chest heaving. But her constricted pupils say it all.

“Hawke,” He tries. “Hawke, it’s okay.”

His voice carries her on the waves back to him. The storm wreaks all sides, but he insists the peace is here with him, a safety line back to shore, back to the caves, back to that hammock.

Hawke holds her breath…

And she looks at him—

Written pages flash as turning memories, of how they met, how they survived every battle and betrayal, and how they snatched each chance to come up for air, and ran as far as the coast allowed, to watch the sun sleep, and the moon awaken. Sometimes, the moon rose before the sunset, and glowed a faint pink, the same pink returning to her cheeks. The corner of her lips flicker a want, a desire, something she’s been meaning to say after all this time, but if she can’t say it, he will.

—and she blurts, “Your pants are really warm!” as he says, “I can’t twiddle arrows—what?”

“Hawke’s awake!” Cole shouts, blinking between stabs.

Friends in the storm glance back though they’re mere doll size, Varric sees their relief.

“Hawke!?” Cassandra strikes, strikes, then turns to block, and look back. “Maker…is she…?” Pride smashes down but she roars back and brings it to its knee. “Keep fighting!”

A new vigor emboldens them in the fray.

“Varric?” Hawke says. “Is this my pity party?”

Varric wonders if there is more peace out there than this awkwardness.

“Your what?”

“Death didn’t send you?”

“Not…exactly.”

She looks down.

“Master Tethras,” she scolds and stares. “I am suited how Mother birthed me.”

Varric snorts a laugh. “Glad the Fade hasn’t changed you.”

Sandal walks over, all teeth. “Mistress Hawke.”

“Sandal!” she exclaims, “So many faces…wha—how did you get here? How did he get here?” She turns to Varric.

“Brought it for you,” Sandal says as he hands her folded cloth he pulled from his robe.

“You know my measurements, Sandal? That’s creepy.”

Cassandra cries and everyone darts their eyes to see her fall.

“Last potion!” Solas yells.

A burst of whitish blue casts over just as Cole rushes over to Feynriel and Seeker. Varric can barely see their eyes but they’re hurting, hunched over, and exhausted. Cole remains in high spirits—pun almost unintended. But Cassandra looks like she’s raced across Thedas twice and is going for a third. They need to get in there.

“Answers after we escape,” Varric insists.

Cassandra yells back, “Can she fight!?”

Hawke stands and unfolds of the garment with one shake. It’s Varric’s tunic.

Cassandra adds, “With decency!?”

Hawke fakes appreciation, “He tried,” and throws her arms in. “Roomy.”

The tunic covers enough but she shouldn’t stroll into the Chantry unless she’s Rivaini. She begins buttoning the frogs where it counts most. Halfway up, she stops, and sniffs the collar. “Even smells like you, Varric—” She gasps. “Who’s feeding Muttons!?”

A fireball soars behind her and strikes the tree.

Sandal, Varric, and Hawke turn and see a line of Rage demons ignoring the front party, and aiming shots across the chasm.

“Careful, Hawke,” Varric holds up a hand. She was the best fire mage after Bethany died. All her best spells are because of her sister. Against Rages? Neutralized at best.

Hawke lowers her head, eyeballing the space between her and the fire wall.

Sandal holds out a staff (where ever he pulled that from). “Enchantment?” It’s inlaid with runes, carved to mimic the tree she grew, styled with Tevinter accents.

“Oh,” Hawke grips it. The runes light sequentially. “Varric, ready the scoreboard.”

“Right behind you, Hawke!”

He reaches for his crossbow and snatches air. “Oh, shit.”

“Well, now I know who’s feeding Muttons for an entire year after this.”

“Hey, I’m not completely helpless.” He pulls the daggers from his boots.

“Stay close.” She runs, he follows. “And Varric?”

If hearts could peep, his just tweeted.

“Don’t stare at my ass.”

“But it’s right there!”

He blames the Maker for making him the perfect height.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Bad things happen when I lead. We get lost, people die, and the next thing you know I'm stranded somewhere without any pants!" - Alistair Theirin


	17. These Emerald Waters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The climax.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for really rushing this chapter. The faster I get to the end of this novel, the faster I can revise it to make it awesome. Enjoy it still! Just here to remind you this is a rough.

Throughout the aversive language of Hawke, Varric learned that snarky remarks were often masks for gratitude. When she says, "Stop staring at my ass," she actually says, "Thank you, oh wonderfully handsome rogue of my heart." Sometimes he doubts how far his denial will go, but then he's met with new, surprising feats. Like Hawke's denial she's been in a coma for what feels like forever.

Her eyes burn a sea of fire before she leaps the giant crack as infinite as the Void. Hawke flashes a spell beneath her that launches her further upward, leaving a nearly-invisible stream of air behind her. Varric wavers and stops himself before following. He latches his eyes on her as he runs along the edge, toward Cassandra and Feynriel; so much for staying close. Hawke twirls her staff to point downward and braces for landing—and panics when there's no land beneath her feet. Varric yells her name—she plummets into the darkness, and all feeling in him follows. A puff of green breaks the shadow. Cole reappears, Hawke in arms. Relief rushes over, but Varric's legs turn jelly, and he barely makes it over, stumbling the last few meters.

"How could you think you can fly when you just hatched?" Cole says, smiling.

"I saw it in a puppet show once," Hawke says.

"Is this really the time?" Cassandra shouts.

"Hey, Varric, remember that time I just woke up, and skipped breakfast to go straight into that marathon? Yeah, me neither."

Feynriel casts a wave of fire and sends it away. Demons not immune panic and flee. "She's been in a dream state too long. She needs to recover and we need an exit!"

"Finally!" Cassandra says. "Let's—" She glances back, then glances again. She bores her eyes into Varric. "Where's your crossbow!?"

"Back there," he says. He snatches up his coat by her feet and rummages the pockets as he slips it on. A few grenades are left, his smoke pellets, some traps, but zero potions, including the misters.

"More on the way!" Solas shouts across the chasm.

He skids through the row of rage demons Hawke intended to overtake, leaving a streak of bright blue that freezes them in place. He stops just before Cassandra, spins around with arms raised, and drops a crushing force field and kills them all, then he trots behind the safety of her shield.

"I have never seen so many," Solas says, then sees Hawke, and he wrinkles his brow in surprise. "You saved her. Despite the odds...that's—" He deflects a fireball careening at them, spinning on a heel, whacking it with his staff, and landing precisely the same way he stood. "Cole, exit please!"

Cole begins to speak beyond the conversations of men, staring into Hawke's eyes, although from Varric's viewpoint he can only see the gaudy birdbath. "Sun breaks, light everywhere, spears shimmer white gold along the crags—he's too bright to see." He looks about. "It. It's too bright. Too bright and valuable. That's why they keep coming. To catch it or kill it. I can't see the exit."

"Maybe Sandal knows!" Varric shouts over another magical explosion.

It hits Cassandra's shield and bright blue debris sprays over them. Varric turns toward the tree—it stands alone.

"Where the hell—"

"Look out!" Precious cries.

A new Pride rises from the ranks of the approaching horde. It stabs its claws into the ground and hoists a colossal wedge of rock above its head. Two words run through Varric's mind as the Pride hurls it over and impending pain arcs toward them. They duck, but Varric thinks it wasn't aiming at them. He turns just as it collides with the bridge. The stone crackles and echoes through the chasm, smaller pieces falling first into the infinite black, then more, then...the bridge shifts.

"Move!" Cassandra yells.

Cole and Hawke vanish; Solas grabs Cassandra before he fades too. They pop up next to Precious who used conventional means to run: his legs. Varric

Varric's last to escape. The bridge fractures before him and breaks off, leaving him to balance on stone sliding into the abyss. Too far to jump with too short of legs. Rocks crackle beneath him.

"Varric!" Hawke shrieks. "Let me go. Varric!"

He teeters and throws his arms out for balance. Rock shifts again and he watches Feynriel's boots get closer to his face—the floor ascends over his head...

Feynriel snatches his arm and squeezes. The bridge collapses. Varric hangs, still gripping his coat. Cassandra stabs her shield into the ground and reaches for him. He throws the coat, knowing his arm's too short. She catches it and he grips it tight, despite a burning pain. They pull him up. Blue light flashes over them. Two more hands grab his tunic. He meets solid ground and the terror coursing through him swells and throbs in his fingers and toes, trying to leave, but nothing escapes the pounding in his chest as he stares Hawke in the face. Her hands shake madly and, when Seeker and Precious free him, and yell at him to start running again, she throws herself on him.

"I'm not losing you too!"

He buries his face into her neck and his skin's hair stands on end.

He's been saying that for ten years.

"These aren't the doors we're looking for," Dorian sasses.

It's bad when the two-handed warrior is out of breath, although he is dessert for Dorian's eyes. A fancy, horrifying, glowing dessert who wants to kill him. Him, Fenris' team, and Logan's regather their stamina after charging through a baker's dozen of time-wasters. When Morrigan, Merrill, Logan, and him could not open the Eluvian to the Fade, they accepted the Crossroads. Merrill's expert "Fade sense" has been taking them on a straight line to nowhere.

"They're here," she had said, "I promise!"

Dorian could have done better and he's currently distracted by the shiny object glaring at him.

"Now what?" Fenris snaps.

"I didn't say anything!" Dorian defends.

He points his sword at him and stomps up—if bare feet could stomp effectively—and walks right past him, shoving him aside. Dorian protests but swears his mustache twitched when the elf's windswept musk struck him senseless. He hides the whimper with a cough.

Fenris had spotted a dwarf jumping out of one of the Eluvians. Everyone spins into a defensive stance and the stranger smiles up at them.

"Enchantment?"

Fenris folds his arms. "That's one of Hawke's former servants."

The other dwarf Dorian regretfully brought along bounces out of the crowd.

"Sandal?" Bianca says. "Oh my nug-faced in-laws. How'd you get here?"

"Enchantment!"

Dorian massages his face and pulls on his lower lip.

Cole holds Hawke's staff when they meet one hundred, racing heartbeats later.

"It likes you better," he says, handing it to her in mid-run.

Can't go back. Can't find Sandal. What if they can't find an exit? What if this is it?

Cassandra races them along the chasm, the only way they can go is to follow it.

"There!" she shouts, pointing at mountains faded by the light green haze of the Fade. It's a cascade lining a giant mass of water. Above it float sections of rock, including—

"The Black Sea-ty," Hawke huffs in her struggle to breathe. "The sea...under the city..."

Cole nods. "Yes, that could work."

"Talk sense!" Cassandra yells back.

"Follow Cole!" Solas instructs.

"I—" Hawke pants and rests her head along her staff.

"Here—" Varric tosses his coat on Hawke after he unbuttons the tail to give her better...coverage. Without permission, he pins his shoulder on her, grabs her legs, and hauls her over while thinking about naughty toast.

"V—" she tries, but he feels her slouch.

He tries to keep up with all the long legs and doesn't look at the impending wall of demons ready to push them over the edge. On straight adrenaline, he ignores the weight bouncing against his shoulder, and sticks to eyeballing the waterline in the distance. Solas casts the barriers at every chance he gets. Demons throw spells that shoot overhead but they as they get closer, their aim improves, and Precious takes them on with deflective blasts. Cassandra keeps her shield up and Cole remains nearby to cloak Varric. Fire explodes around, Precious sucks it into his hands, and streaming it towards a frosty Despair demon. It screeches and retreats to a safer distance.

"Almost," Hawke breathes out.

Solas fade-jumps ahead several meters, then casts a storm of fiery boulders, then calms himself in a balance pose. He vanishes again. Streaks of frost chain together, left-right-left-and onward toward the horde. Demons meet their doom when they try to walk through Solas' field. They freeze in place just as a boulder strikes down and shatters them into floating green particles, and leftover ice shards. Solas paints a sheet all the way to the water but the horde learns, giving Varric a clear path. He rushes along the edge of the field, the horizon of the water lifts, and he sees the beach at last. His lungs burn, his sides ache, his neck protests, and he confesses he loves it. She's real and he's holding onto what's real.

Cassandra takes his flank as he drops Hawke onto her feet into the water.

"Now what?" Cass shouts.

Cole runs to Cass' side and pulls his daggers out. "She opens a way."

Hawke walks out until she's calf-deep. She waves her free hand over the surface, and raises her staff high with the other. Magic gathers above, a spiral of barely-visible energy. She slaps her hand down, breaking the water's tension, displacing her reflection. Some of it splashes him and he wipes his eye. She steps out and reaches down to slap it again.

"Open sashimi!" Hawke says with another slap.

"What's wrong?" Varric says.

"I don't understand! She said I just needed a reflection."

"Who said?" Solas asks, popping in view nearby.

Varric thinks he knows.

"Doesn't matter cuz it's not working!" Hawke stabs the water with the staff.

Varric doesn't want to take his eyes off her but when he hears a commotion behind him, he has to turn. The horde is here. The blue field has collapsed and hundreds of snarling demons stand before them, and one thought among many skitters around as he stares them down: he can't swim.

Someone takes his hand and squeezes. He looks up and Hawke looks back with a smile to break men's hearts. Sweat beads down his temple and hangs off his jaw, trapped in the scruff.

"We'll get out of here," he slips out.

There's a sparkle in her eye. "Master fibber."

Her staff can't hold her and she falls into him with a groan. "So tired..."

Varric drops to his knees and cradles her. "I promise when this is over, you can have a lifetime of vacation days." He watches the team make themselves a wall between him and the horde. "I'll let you read my latest serial. It's a true story."

Cassandra charges through an opening. Something gets stuck in Varric's throat and he tries to swallow it. A flood of heat drains from his face. Solas and Feynriel erect ice walls beside Cassandra to funnel the demons.

"B-but you gotta keep fighting. They are, look."

She looks up and he sees the tears fall down her cheek. He dries them with his glove...

Realization overtakes him, like fireworks lit his brain, and fired off all over.

"That's it! Andraste's ass!" He yells at Cassandra, "Seeker, we—"

An explosion of light flies her up and over, nearly knocking over the mages, and landing by Varric's boot.

"Seeker!" Solas shouts.

Solas puts his hand under her nose. "Alive."

The ice walls shatter. Prides and Terrors walk over the remains. Rages, Despairs, Wraiths, and Shades follow. Varric sees the holes in their faces. Cole blinks out and sprints through the front lines. Solas and Feynriel take their halves of the battle—red and blue fire against each other.

"Varric, we need your help!" Feynriel calls back.

"Hawke, we can make it!" Varric gently shakes her. "We just need the tree."

Feynriel snaps. "Varric!"

Varric jumps and pulls grenades from his coat, then hands her his favorite. "Pellets are in there." He takes a step away from her and feels the pull of needing to stay. Everything aches to keep him near but if he doesn't help...

Hawke says, "The tree..." and uses Cassandra as a pillow. "Just resting my..." She slips her hands into the coat pockets and shuts her eyes.

Varric takes on the center after smashing a pellet to the ground. The faster he's done here the sooner he can get back to her. The more dead demons, the more time they have, even if—no. It's the Despairs swarming them so he lights them up first. Spears of ice roar around him, he kicks through before he's impaled, and tosses them Antivan fire. They screech as the licking flames rise higher until they're engulfed, and Cole slashes each one with a toxic juice, then moves on. Varric finishes them—he pulls the daggers from his boots, and runs through, stabbing anywhere he can until the bodies evaporate. He dashes back through the dead and regroups next to Solas.

"About Hawke," Solas starts betwixt spellcasting. "Have you—"

"Not yet," Varric says.

"Will you?" He throws a fireball and his glare blazes orange.

"Not the time!" Varric yells over the battle noise, surveying Cole weaving about, then Solas yells "Look out!" but only his lips move. There's a green flash—the ground moves sideways, dragging along his head and arm, taking flesh with it. Solas takes his wrist to stand him up, using the hand bearing the ring.

"Then when?"

He hates that he can't hide behind lies anymore—truth is itchy and reveals more than secret freckles.

"Varric!" He drops another barrier when Feynriel puts up another ice wall. "I want my damned party!"

Shades assault the wall and Wraiths skate around throwing bolts they manage to avoid; all but one, which hits Solas between his staff spin, and clocks him in the chest. He hits the floor but the shield around him rejuvenates, and he shakes his head clear.

Hawke's voice spins Varric around.

"Party?"

She holds a conscious Cassandra who hugs her abdomen as they walk in step.

"Seeker's up!"

"I'm running on prayers now," Cassandra winces. Hawke hands over her sword and helps adjust the shield across her arm.

"She'll be okay."

Hawke looks okay herself, better than okay. What happened between now and the sixty-six seconds (give or take) he left her?

Cassandra raps her sword on the shield, then charges ahead with Feynriel and Solas following. Shivers crawl down his spine when she roars.

"I was gone a minute!"

"Naps are great," Hawke grins. "But you shouldn't let the hermit be healer." Her fingers sparkle when they wiggle. He almost forgot she had changed schools.

Wait. Hermit?

Paper stares up at him. Hawke holds an old, wrinkled note he now regrets not throwing in the fire. He grimaces at the drunken handwriting but before he can grab it she folds it and shoves it into his coat pocket.

"Watch it!" Feynriel shouts back and Hawke flings her staff up to deflect a magical spear that could have skewered him.

Varric throws back another Antivan Fire and mixes it with one of his disorienting grenades. Above the hills of Prides and other towering monsters, a white crack splits the sky. Varric sees a distorted image of an Eluvian village. He prays it'll start raining heavy mirrors on demon heads soon, if not immediately, so he can address the little sheet of paper problem, but he'll take the next thing he sees over anything else: the Inquisition.

He cries out with a smile so large it hurts. "It changed venues, Chuckles!"

"Ha!" Solas responds after standing.

Commander Cullen drops into the fray with Logan only a few meters from the front lines, and disappears behind the curtains of demons. He hollers to get their attention and Logan lands an array of colorful mines, then ignites what she calls her Spirit blade.

Logan taunts the horde. "Oh, you guys are so f—!" She fades out and runs a line.

Varric slaps Solas on the back, laughing, then more follow. Dorian falls with a blast of fire encircling him, then assaults the demons encircling with a wave of violet that sends the Shades running in fear. Glowing tattoos catch his attention followed by red hair.

"Make a hole!" Aveline commands.

Feynriel says, "Is that...?"

"Reinforcements!" Varric shouts and it sends chills up his arms.

Fenris rushes the field and cuts through demons three at a time. Aveline guards the next crew coming down: Merrill, Carver, and—

"Sandal!" Feynriel exclaims.

"Inquisitor!" Cassandra bellows. "We need a path to the tree!"

"What tree?" Logan looks around, spots it on her right, then nods when Cassandra gets a visual of her again. Demons fly high unwillingly and Fenris slices through them as he leaps into the air.

"You did this," Hawke says, barely audible.

He grabs more grenades from his coat; it lightens Hawke's load so she probably doesn't mind.

"You're worth the trouble," Varric says.

Add some pellets. Damn. He's out of pockets.

Hawke hooks him with her staff and pulls him in; she grips his hair with both hands, tilts his head back, and captures his mouth with hers. Her lips are full and soft, but hard and swift. Sharp as a snakebite that leaves the prey impotent. Her claws dig into his neck and the kiss turns hot with the rising heat melding them together, and muting the encompassing battle. Everything in his hands falls at their feet. He only hears the muffled voices behind them and a clapping like thunder, with flashes of lightning. It courses across the field but misses them. Smoke hangs with a metallic smell. After his initial shock, he shuts his eyes, and takes her in, running his fingers up her back, and through her hair, pressing her against him until she wants more, and he deepens the passion, stripping away the memories of old flames, hers and his, until it's them alone in the Fade—a kiss that renders them eternal in a time frozen by fire and electrified by waves. Every nerve in his legs tremble. Something in his chest flutters like parchment caught in a summer breeze—he can almost smell the pages of a book yet written. A flush overcomes him and he no longer feels his fingers as he parts his lips to seal her in.

He could die now and not care, but an insistent voice carries over blasts of regaining sound.

"—'s here!" Cassandra calls. "Varric! Varric! Ugh!"

Love forged in disarray is a love that lasts. At the edge of the calamity they stand under a blaze of deadly fireworks that paint the air like the northern lights.

"Solas!" Cassandra says.

"I know!"

Demons scatter to avoid an explosive, bloody death. The brightest barrier Varric's ever seen casts over them. Something kindly strikes the top of his head. He opens an eye—a small rock rests by his boot.

"Now or never!" Solas says.

Hawke pulls away first; their lips stick until she's looking into his eyes with fervor. He yanks off his gloves.

Solas orders, "Feynriel! Barrier!"

"On it!"

Varric hears it pop. He turns, Solas is taking off the ring. He chucks it over and Varric nearly misses the catch. It's been a while since he's held onto anything bare-handed. He squeezes the metal between thumb and finger.

"Marian Hawke," he starts. A lump sticks in his throat as his beating heart races with the rhythm of the fight behind him. "As Fade's witness, and hopefully Andraste too—" Red mist bursts beside them, then turns to liquid and pours back out of sight with Merrill yelling incantations nearby. "I have waited my entire life since I've known you—to tell you this—" Green gasses cascade the barrier and dissipate before touching ground. A Terror screeches. "—but I doubt we're going to live much longer, so I'll say it now. Marian..."

[](http://fav.me/dbg85ro) 

The fight drums in his ears, blood drips off his brow, a salty, metallic mix catches on his tongue, and he breathes in the cold, wet rock, and his own warm, unshowered musk and leather that mingles with the smell of her skin lingering in his nose.

"...I can't twiddle arrows between my fingers."

Hawke glances about then wrinkles her brow.

Logan strings along a sentence of cuss words. Dorian's laughter permeates the slaughter.

"W—but Varric," Hawke says. "I already knew that."

"Oh good," he says through a quick exhale. "Will you marry me?"

A blast of fire enrages over one side of the barrier, swallowing the sky into a mass of orange and blistering white. She shoots her arms up and shores the damage with a greenish shield before the explosion destroys it.

Hawke roars, "Are you kidding!?"

Demons break through the fire outside the barrier. Solas blasts them backward, Feynriel freezes the rest but is knocked away. Cullen races over to fortify.

Hawke stares Varric down as she lets off the shield. Her chest heaves, nostrils flared.

Varric drops to a knee. The rock stings the bone. Green flecks sling through the barrier; comets of frosty demon hurl overhead. Another second and her silence in the battle tears at him. He stretches his arms out and gestures a panicked anticipation. Either kiss him again or kill him right here. Right now. He can't take it—

"YES!"

Varric could have sworn he heard a squeal through the blinding joy filling him until he can't resist another kiss. More immediate but not lacking passion, he takes a breath, and slides the ring on the appropriate finger.

"It tingles," Hawke says. "I—" Ethereal beams climb over her skin. Then, a grin grows across her face and she feels her canine with her tongue.

"Oh no," he says.

Magic supercharges through her staff and she readies herself. "First one to a hundred?"

That damned grin is contagious. "You're on."

Varric can't stop smiling while the cheers and whistles sing through demons caught in explosive traps and mines. He waves with the free hand, the other tosses what's left in his—Hawke's—their coat. Sandal reaches them and donates some Boomies, as Hawke calls them. Cole keeps close with Cullen flanking so Hawke can enjoy her newfound energy. Fenris takes his crew ahead to thin out the forces closest to the tree and suddenly Varric aches for his crossbow. He doesn't confess his rhythm's off but having Bianca before made him unstoppable. Without her—it—his timing's off, and ends up dodging and evading more than attacking. This nose already wears a scar; he'd like to limit those. But Carver's fighting has improved; he seems to be ignoring his sister. Someone should since no one brought spare pants.

The ring cloaks her, in a way he hasn't seen with Solas. Part of her body remains while the rest shifts in the Fade as if...

Sera would have if she followed the crazy people raining from Veil tears. How'd they open it anyway?

Humming to the beat of his stride seems to reconnect him to the hollowness in his recently regloved hands. He holds daggers in the crossbow's place, but at this point he's just a brawler. Close combat is not his style. A Shade cuts him off and he shoves his boot heel into it. It keels forward and he strikes daggers down like fangs into where a neck should be.

Cole blinks too close and startles him. He sprint-slices the Spade until it dies and he vanishes again.

It must be easy to be the new crowd with fresh potions and habitual equipment. What's he going to do now without a crossbow? Full-time author? Hawke will argue he could only do half because half the time he's a renowned fabricator. Goes to show she's only half-right. He'd have to retire to be full-time.

After guiding himself between Cassandra and Cullen who deflect the bigger baddies well, Varric looks for Hawke, and doesn't have to look long.

Hawke takes to the air again, higher than before, and soars down upon the Rages, but instead of slamming into the ground, she bounces off a forcefield just above the demons, and flips backward. Varric blushes. She extinguishes their fire—they blacken into rock, unmovable. Hawke lands on foot and knee, raises three conjoined fingers in front of her face, concentrates, and releases. A shockwave strikes him—Varric grasps his chest just as does Precious, and probably the others behind him. It's as if all their organs ran screaming at 1000 kilometers in a second then hit a wall. After a decade of learning to get used to that move, he never did. Precious turns pale green and moans. The line of rage demons explode into bits of volcanic ash and Hawke moves on.

Along the way, Varric receives casual praise for putting a ring on her. Dorian had started a fight with Fenris on who'd be Best Man, but Logan broke that up fast with something called "Firsties." Then threatened him with Prima Nocta. That's when Cullen had something to say but Varric had been watching Hawke like a dwarf with sharp eyesight. Perhaps the giddiness of hearing "YES!" echoing in his ears had affected his speech, but he's content to just smile, and see things going his way at last. But he's written those plots before and when the thought crosses his mind, he knows it's too late to unthink it. It starts in the thick of a fight where Hawke soars around and calls out to Fenris. They take on a Pride who gets to close to Merrill. Old times. Logan breaks apart the demon cluster from the center, along with Dorian, Sandal, and a face he never thought he'd see in the Fade. It's an illusion. It has to be. She taps Sandal on the shoulder before handing him something and he disappears behind a couple Prides. Sandal blasts a hole through the crowd. And that's when his smile dies and Varric sees Bianca staring back in the shadows of freshly-dead demons falling, and he knows exactly how they feel.

She must have come after Sandal. Her weak smile fails to cover for her sad eyes and he knows she saw everything. What was she thinking? She's never been in this deep of shit before so why would she think—they're already going to get out of here but now he really needs to get everyone out. It's not her, it's her parents. If he doesn't save her from this place there will be assassins on his and Hawke's heels until one of them is dead. Selfish, selfish—argh!

Bianca focuses on the task, helping Sandal, Logan, and Dorian—practically the demolition squad. So does he and they're almost what was the bridge. Is he Team Squishy, then? Besides two warriors on either side of him he has been nothing but a soggy paperback. But when he spots a Wraith aiming at Cullen's blindside, Varric whips back and pokes it several times like a 40-year-old Cole might do, and Cullen thanks him.

"Close positions!" their Inquisitor orders.

Her commander calls out, "Formation!"

Varric wonders if Hawke will listen. Fenris' group have cleared enough space to be comfortable turning their backs on the chasm. Where the Pride destroyed the bridge resides forboding cracks along the amputated spot. Varric steers away from that area, keeping close to Hawke; she's off taking out rows upon rows, counting under her breath. The warriors make a crescent around Sandal. They must have had time to plan back at Skyhold. He wonders how Sparkler's party is if he's here and Josephine is there. Sparkler takes a spot between Cullen and Fenris—ooh la la—and Merrill between Fenris and Carver, Feynriel between Aveline and Cassandra, and even Solas jumps in to the vacancy on the other side of Cassandra.

"Hawke!" Logan shouts but she's ignored. "Go ahead, Sandal."

"Enchantment!"

Varric's yet to see Sandal in action but when has he seen someone deliberately tune out the Inquisitor? It had to be his future bride, of course, who's surrounded by Shades but she doesn't notice the Fear demon that's emerged. He shouts her name—no response. It closes in, fingers gnarled and spread. It hisses from its skeleton jaw.

With his chest abruptly sore, Varric bolts for her.

Varric remembers the day she gave up fire as her primary weapon. The trauma of seeing the flames above Kirkwall's skyline changed everyone in some way and with Hawke, it was as simple as shifting from left-handed to right-handed. But he hadn't been around her enough after to see the practice achieved. It didn't take much for her, though. Little known truth is that she's neither stronger in one or the other, but both. After Anders, she took on his school of healing, and traded in her usual Elemental training for something she called Force. Still a weapon, but it wasn't a tornado that took out Kirkwall's chantry. It was a big pile of shit and a long, lit fuse.

Feeling her force's wave reminds him of how she was and is glad she hasn't changed much.

"Hawke!" Varric shouts, closer now.

Still ignores him. Hawke holds her staff parallel to the ground along the small of her back. The eyes glow brighter the longer she stands still. The Fear demon raises its claws. It lunges. Hawke shoots out her free hand, palm flat. Sea green tendrils spear the demon, then curve behind and latch onto his arms and neck. They squeeze Fear until it stops moving. It stops hissing. It stops. Varric watches body parts fly before he hears the rip from the tears. The tendrils retract into Hawke, but not before sliding over her arms, and dancing loops around her torso.

Much.

The Shades attack at once. Varric makes it but there's nothing to do. Hawke swings her staff around and she spins along the momentum. A gassy glow leaks from her eyes and when she sees Varric for half a second, she exhales, smiling, and the glow pours from her breath as if a liquid, but billows, and quickly evaporates. Tendrils jet from her staff, thinner and wispier, separate from her body. They ride the momentum and pass through every Shade. The demons lurch and cry out as if something pulled their twisted souls, and ate them. They die and wither into the Void. There's a break on the battlefield, With her back to Varric, Hawke juggles her staff around her arm, then whips it behind her shoulder in a vertical hold.

Hawke mutters, "Was that 83? Bet it was 83. Make it 84, just in case." She pats her thigh, makes a fist, then shakes it out. In the one moment she holds it still, she can't; it shakes like the first time he had been in a fight. Granted, it was with his brother, but he never forgot the feeling.

"Hawke?" Varric says. Another swarm of demons catches them up. "Hawke!" She turns.

Monsters gallop towards them, the mass horde saturating the ground and blanketing the Fade around them. Varric hears Logan screaming for them. Explosions in the distance, either from Sandal, or Bianca. If this is it, it's with her knowing he chose. His choice rushes to him in her glow—colors of the pools beneath their hammock, in their secret place. Cole was right; demons overtake the Fade and ignore the Inquisition. If Hawke had remained with them, they wouldn't be surrounded now. Their eyes are stars in the night of their flesh and the fire and frost demons are suns too close for him and Hawke to survive much longer. Something they can't have, they will kill. When he manages to look away from his doom, he fixes on the wild grin before him. A wild grin that reassures and extinguishes all doubt and replaces it with a burning curiosity. Hawke latches her finger through his necklace and seals their lips again, then roots her forehead against his own.

She whispers to him and the word perches in his ear. One word that could make a king blush and fell an elven god. Before he knows, he's holding onto his coat, and he only glances at it a second—she's gone and his knees are weak.

Spectral images streak across the field in a continual orbit with Hawke flickering through planes of existence as if...

...The Fade and her are one. Not a spirit. A partner. Solas could explain it better. Maybe he's still caught on a word:

"Soon."

Varric throws on the coat and smells home but it'll be a longer journey if she doesn't meet her quota, and Dorian would hate if they miss his hard work. He feels around his pockets and finds the paper, but a couple grenades he dared not look for while Hawke wore this. He pulls the pins and prays they don't affect her when they blow. She responds well—Hawke darts from the area, pulling the claimed souls that trail behind her now. "98, 99..."

They meet at the center, her glow steaming above them, and she absorbs the 100th before the grenades go off.

Crack-boom!

Two smoky explosions obscure any demons outside the radius and stun any inside, but just in case, he drops a pellet, and runs like hell to the Inquisitor, with Cole and Hawke soaring ahead. He counts 13 but he'll exaggerate over drinks later.

Logan's snarl reminds him of the time he stayed out way too late with questionable company. While Hawke can still blow her off completely, Varric faces the cacophonous music.

"We are trying to escape here!" she scolds.

"I had to stretch my legs," Hawke says, bumping her shoulder without an aura of kindness.

The team has assembled a makeshift bridge running on mage glue. If he has another choice, he'd like to take it.

"We were waiting for you!" Logan wrenches herself around.

Does he dare tell them his knockout powders don't last forever? Everyone but Logan and Hawke look back at the amassing horde. It never stops. Before he could say anything, he hears the crack. Logan's holding her jaw as Hawke shakes out her fist.

"So was I," she says and lets the words hang in the air, then, "but I'm glad it wasn't you I waited for."

Say goodbye to Varric for me.

Varric sees the moment play in the Inquisitor's head and it was then he noticed that very expression, the longing regret, covered with sarcasm just like Hawke, to mask the pain. The hours spent in the tavern, or in her quarters, were not because she was tired, or lazy, or it was just her personality. It was her costly choice. Despite Hawke taking responsibility for Corypheus, thinking she could make a difference by sacrificing herself to an ancient demon, was killing Logan just as much as it nearly drowned him. Before Cassandra pulled him out, he couldn't see Logan's pain because she didn't let him, much like he did. Standing between them now, he sees it all. Worse off, he sees the demons. Worser off, Bianca's staring at him out of his peripherals.

"Please," Logan whimpers. "Forgive me."

With a countenance of pity, Hawke puts her unbruised hand on her shoulder. "You're an idiot." She hugs her and peers up. "Demons! Joy!"

"Get to the tree!" Logan pats Hawke out of the way and herds the warriors and rogues over, then the mages sequentially.

Varric feels the tug on his sleeve and he's forced to look where he's been avoiding the most. The first thing to hurt is seeing those sparkling eyes and remembering how he wanted to look into them forever; the second was the pain of standing at the altar. It should have been a sign, a life lesson, but instead he had to dive into the Fade to find that. He knows what she'll say, so he interrupts her.

"We'll deal with this later!" Varric speaks to Solas mainly, "We need to get the water out of those hanging—whatevers! Make a pool!"

"But, Varric, I just—I didn't—"

He grabs her arms. "Stop. I...can't."

"Then listen. I—"

Cullen yells, "Incoming!"

"—I'm happy for you!"

Varric glances for a trick or double meaning, but then sees Hawke still on the other side of the chasm and his heart leaps onto the bottom of his tongue.

Shields up, boulders plummet and knock down Aveline and Cassandra; Cullen stumbles back. A fan of magic pierces the crowd but Solas dropped a barrier before it contacts. Dorian shoves Fenris out of the way—"Look out!"—and takes a hit through his shoulder, and falls on top of him. Since that's none of his business, Varric looks elsewhere, and notices some runes got lost over the edge in the scuffle. He holds his stomach where a glowing lance burned through it. It doesn't just tear his body; it goes for the spirit and he'd much like to keep that intact if it's going to hurt this much.

"You are?" he grunts. She's not where she was. "Bianca?"

The scream comes from the chasm.

"Bianca!"

He scrambles to the edge and looks over. Several demons fall, screeching on the way down. No sign of her.

"Up here!" she calls. Varric rolls over—she's climbing the tree, trying to cut the eggs open. "Hey, all those runes could hold enough to make a puddle! You guys pull 'em together and I'll break these!"

"You're a life saver!" Varric claps.

"She's taller—" Varric jumps scared at Hawke's sudden appearance. "—in person," Hawke admires the view. "Spirits in my dreams never did her justice."

"Oh don't start." He stands.

The silence across the chasm unsettles him and when he checks the answer to his question is more unsettling. The horde is encaged in ice.

"What—"

"Enchantment," she mimics Sandal and aids Solas and the others. Sandal walks by.

Solas uses what force he has to gather the runes at once; they pull around him, leaving enough room for the water. One of the eggs breaks and people cheer, but the elf doesn't get out of the way in time, and it douses him in Fade fluid. She offers a hollow apology and breaks another, this time making it in the puddle. She cuts down the other eggs that can't reach the puddle directly and drops them into people's arms. They make a bucket brigade for efficiency until Hawke tells them "that's perfect!" and Solas inquires as to how she's going to make a doorway from tree juice. Hawke just takes his arm and wrings out his sleeve.

"Honestly," she begins, "I've never tried til today."

The crew circles around as Hawke steps into the pool and it illuminates at her touch. The tendrils that once occupied her staff evict themselves and slide down her body, carrying the surfacing beams of teal. They dive into the water, Hawke mutters under her breath, as she could never think inside her own head; she kneels and waves her palm over the surface. Varric leans in, enchanted by the starlight billowing to the top. Images of Hawke's childhood to present. They're too fast to see them all but one stands out the most—

Aveline blurts, "That's Hawke out of her diaper! Nothing's changed."

Fenris and Merrill burst into their own laughter.

"Andraste's knickers." Carver hides his face in his hand.

"Precisely," Fenris says, grinning.

—Hawke at her estate, holding an unopened envelope marked 'My Future Son-in-Law.'

But the naked baby Hawke is good too.

Suddenly, the stars become more than light, more than a reflection, and the hundreds of images become whole: Skyhold's garden.

"That is...a unique power," Solas says.

Hawke beams. "I am going to have the biggest breakfast Thedas has ever seen!" Merrill and Bianca allow themselves to applaud, but everyone tired of being on the brink of danger looks eager to leave. "And I will fall asleep in my oatmeal! All in, everybody!"

Dorian offers Fenris the first go and oddly the broody elf accepts with thanks. Love forged, perhaps? Hawke steps aside and Fenris nods at her, trusting, then steps into the water, and vanishes underneath the surface. The rest of the mages go through, save Hawke, who offers her hand to Bianca. She takes it and his heart sings.

Hawke continues, "Okay, all in, all in, all in."

Bianca drops through, then Aveline—she kisses Hawke on the cheek—then Carver, who always has something snide to say, but instead hugs his sister, and jumps with arms crossed. Cullen goes, Sandal next, then Logan, then eerie peace.

Now that she doesn't have an audience, the smile wanes, and she's staring out upon the vast, catastrophic field of frozen monsters in their permanent, silent roar, much like a million Merediths. Avalanches crackle far below in the chasm, and echo up, telling them this part of the Fade will soon be no more. Soon. Soon.

Varric swallows the tightness in his throat.

"This," Hawke whispers, "is finally over."

She adjusts the ring; it looks different than before.

"I hated the Fade..."

Her voice trembles.

"...it was quiet..."

Tears pool under her eyes.

"...and lonely..."

They fall and saturate the red cloth of his tunic.

"...and you made it magnificent."

She slips her hands into his.

"I love you, Varric."

He feels the burning in his cheeks and doesn't fight the sting as his eyes water. He looks deep into the soul of the woman he undoubtedly, recklessly, but blamelessly has loved for ten entire years. And all he can do is stare. No other woman could leave him speechless. And that's how he's sure the next book won't leave out a single truth.

"On three," she says.

Varric prepares.

"One..."

They wrap their arms around each other.

"...two..."

He closes his eyes—

"...three."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Scars"
> 
> (Try to tear us apart but know that we'll wear our scars)
> 
> Excuses, excuses are all that I hear  
> All I can see when I look in the mirror  
> I can't escape all these thoughts in my mind  
> They're waiting to haunt me, night after night
> 
> I feel it in my bones, and everything I know  
> It's underneath my skin, and it won't let go  
> They know me all too well, but only time will tell  
> If this is who I am, do I know myself?
> 
> Don't forget your life's your own  
> Don't ever let it go
> 
> In the heat of the moment when fear has you frozen  
> You're crashing and burning when life's at its coldest  
> Don't fall too far from who you are  
> They can cut us but we'll wear our scars  
> In the heat of the moment when fear has you frozen  
> You're crashing and burning when life's at its coldest  
> Don't fall too far from who you are  
> Try to tear us apart but know that we'll wear our scars  
> Try to tear us apart but know that we'll wear our scars
> 
> Denial, denial is all that I've known  
> Holding me hostage, I'm never alone  
> Fighting for air, I'll fight to survive  
> My soul's not for sale, I won't pay the price
> 
> I feel it in my bones, and everything I know  
> It's underneath my skin, but I won't let go  
> Don't forget your life's your own, don't ever let it go
> 
> In the heat of the moment when fear has you frozen  
> You're crashing and burning when life's at its coldest  
> Don't fall too far from who you are  
> They can cut us but we'll wear our scars  
> In the heat of the moment when fear has you frozen  
> You're crashing and burning when life's at its coldest  
> Don't fall too far from who you are  
> Try to tear us apart but know that we'll wear our scars
> 
> You can cut us up but we will survive  
> You had your chance now it's our time to stand up and...  
> Rise!  
> We will survive  
> Right now, the tables turn  
> We're gonna scream it out loud  
> And let our voices be heard
> 
> In the heat of the moment when fear has you frozen  
> You're crashing and burning when life's at its coldest  
> Don't fall too far from who you are  
> They can cut us but we'll wear our scars  
> In the heat of the moment when fear has you frozen  
> You're crashing and burning when life's at its coldest  
> Don't fall too far from who you are  
> Try to tear us apart but know that we'll wear our scars
> 
> I feel it in my bones and everything I know  
> I feel it in my bones, I feel it, I feel it  
> I feel it in my heart when it all turns to dark  
> Try to tear us apart but know that we'll wear our scars
> 
> * * * * *
> 
> "Lift Me Up"  
> (feat. Rob Halford) by Five Finger Death Punch
> 
> It ain't no mystery  
> I'm all I have left  
> I'm pushing back and running you over
> 
> I've been thrown down run around  
> Beaten 'til I hit the ground  
> Telling you right now that it's over
> 
> There's no room for mistakes  
> All the parts are in place  
> Say what you will but say it to my face
> 
> Better back the fuck up  
> Better shut the fuck up  
> I'll do what I want and I'll never give up
> 
> I won't be broken  
> I won't be tortured  
> I won't be beaten down  
> I have the answer  
> I take the pressure  
> I turn it all around
> 
> Lift me up above this  
> The flames and the ashes  
> Lift me up and help me to fly away  
> Lift me up above this  
> The broken the empty  
> Lift me up and help me to fly away  
> Lift me up
> 
> I'm gonna change history  
> Enlighten the world  
> Teach them how to see through my eyes
> 
> I'm gonna lash back check that  
> Fatal as a heart attack  
> Stomp out all the ugliest lies
> 
> You can't convince me to change  
> We ain't on the same page  
> I've had my fill now there's nothing but rage
> 
> Best get out of my way  
> 'Cause there's nothing to say  
> Is that all that you got?  
> Because I ain't got all day
> 
> I won't be broken  
> I won't be tortured  
> I won't be beaten down  
> I have the answer  
> I take the pressure  
> I turn it all around
> 
> Lift me up above this  
> The flames and the ashes  
> Lift me up and help me to fly away  
> Lift me up above this  
> The broken the empty  
> Lift me up and help me to fly away  
> Lift me up
> 
> I won't be broken  
> I won't be tortured  
> I won't be beaten down  
> I have the answer  
> I take the pressure  
> I turn it all around
> 
> Lift me up above this  
> The flames and the ashes  
> Lift me up and help me to fly away  
> Lift me up above this  
> The broken the empty  
> Lift me up and help me to fly away
> 
> Lift me up to fly away  
> Lift me up to fly away  
> Lift me up


	18. The Effects of the Cause

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Instrumental: "Light at the End of the Tunnel" by Kerry Muzzey

**The** cool, fresh air is the first thing to catch his attention after passing through the wetless light in the embraces of his to-be. Sunlight flits across the fluid mirror. He scrunches his nose with a squint and sees impressions of the garden. Along the expanse, shimmers of people crowd around the exit and guide him in, waving, silently cheering. Hawke peeks over his shoulder and lets out a tiny gasp. Barely visible, silver faces look back at them as they open a path, back to their world, their time, their lives. An overwhelming feeling of thankfulness takes hold and he doesn’t know if laughing or crying is appropriate. He follows Hawke in sharing smiles of generosity as the exit nears. Hawke waves back and breathes in the last bit of her old world, a world of dreams. Whether these spirits are a part of that is anyone’s guess, or maybe a part of the portal, they give their best attempt at smiling back. They step through the wall and he swears he saw her parents…

“CONTRAGULATIONS!”

He’s met with a deafening garden full of bellies, breasts, and oddly-fashioned shoes. Taller folks must be overcome with a thousand faces swarming them. A friendly horde, this time, but still made his heart do an integrity test against his insides.

The crowd cheers with ringing bells and drinks slopping in their grasp. Team Kirkwall and Inquisitor stand snugly between them and their recent exit, which retreats, and implodes in on itself with a wispy pop. Carver almost hacks it with his sword but Aveline stops him in time.

Hawke stands out among the group, beaming, taking in every face beaming in return.

Then she squats down next to him and says, “Is it my birthday?”

“No,” Varric says, massaging his temple. “It’s his.”

Cassandra looks at Varric for answers. She won’t get any with that scowl.

Solas, still soaking in Fade juice, grins at him.

“What?” Hawke says with a glance.

“I’ll explain later.”

“Good.” Then she says something else in his ear to make his hair stand on end, and they needed to be alone together. He gives her a hungry look—

“Ladies and gentlemen, the future Marian Tethras!” Logan announces as she stands on a bench.

—A roar of applause pings his ear drums and he can barely hear himself. He stares at Solas who’s clapping with the crowd. Dorian and his mustache grin too, along with the Inquisitor’s council. Red banners shoot up randomly in the crowd with a teal and gold, sun and moon sigil resting evenly between a horizon line. The stitching glints in the vestiges of actual sun before thin clouds diffuse the rays, and soften the shadows in the garden. Josephine urges people to the hall for food, but are welcome to remain in the gardens for drinks and music. It almost seems impossible to wrangle the crowd but once the strangers hear there’s cake, it’s like watching a pond drain from a stream, and that’s left are the people who matter most.

Solas meets him, still clapping, then, by custom, shakes Varric’s free hand.

“You—” Varric begins.

“Some secrets are worth keeping.”

“You did this?” Hawke says.

“Not just myself.” He sells out Ruffles and Sparkler. “Your determination in your quest to retrieve the Champion left me in awe. In all my travels, I have never seen someone so dedicated to one person, risking much on faith alone. You have restored a piece of me I thought I had lost long ago. Thank you.”

“Must’ve taken you weeks to plan this,” Hawke says. “So you knew Varric would find me after all this time?”

Varric looks about; the cohorts sheepishly smile as they gather around and he finds it hard to hide heat rising to his face. A warmth swells in his chest and chokes the words he tries to say.

“Two days, actually,” Ruffles corrects. “I’m so sorry I sent out invitations without your permission, but the Inquisitor insisted it was an emergency.”

“And with several setbacks,” Dorian adds, then pokes Varric in the chest, deflating the pressure. “You’re late!”

“Setbacks,” Varric clears his throat. “You really can keep your mouth shut, Sparkler.”

He holds his breath before letting it out all in one go, “It was excruciating.” They shake hands. “I’m happy to do it again.”

Dorian barks a laugh, then wanders away. “And now I shall reward myself for all our good deeds. Onward!” He swings open the door to the banquet. “To frilly cakes!”

“I didn’t know there was going to be cake,” Fenris says.

“Of course, silly.” He turns, and his voice fades out on exit. “Served on the glistening bellies of slave boys, just how I like it.”

Fenris chases him.

“And the dashing Tevinter mage was never heard from again,” Varric says.

“Before or after he devours the pastries?” Hawke grins.

“Which one?”

Her laugh carries through the veranda and loses its echo to the cream sky.

“When you both have a moment,” Solas begins, “meet me in my study. Preferably before drunken wagers are had.” He nods, then leaves them to the remaining party.

“Aren’t receptions after the ceremony?” Aveline chimes.

She wears an intricate braid now that her hair’s longer. Varric doesn’t put it past her that it’s her secondary weapon. They exchange handshakes when a voice calls behind her.

“This is Hawke, we’re talking about.” Carver approaches; Varric notices fewer stains on his polished Templar armor than Aveline’s shield. “Since when did she follow tradition?”

“I know you’ll be good to her, Varric.” Aveline refuses to let go of his hand, and raises the fear factor by squeezing slight. “I wouldn’t want her father crossing the Veil to shoot you.” She releases and Varric coddles the damage. “Hawke, though…”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” she smiles and Aveline takes her leave.

“At least you didn’t run from your duties like Mother and Father.”

“Hello, brother. No, I don’t think I did any sort of running today. It’s all been Peaches ’n’ cream here.”

Carver flushes red. Then he turns to Varric. “Just to piggyback on what Aveline said—”

“Let me stop you right there, Junior, cuz I don’t think anyone but her husband should be doing that.”

“I—what? That’s not—just watch yourself, dwarf. Father’s dead but I’m still here.”

“Better start playing nice with me, Junior. You know, since…” He grabs him by the back of the neck and leans him closer to hear his low growl. “I’m going to be your brother-in-law.”

Carver straightens stiff like a backboard, turns on a heel, and storms off.

“Lethallan!” Merrill slips by Aveline to tackle Hawke. “That was so exciting! It’s so good to see you again. You know, with all that effort on Varric’s part, you could have at least kissed him.”

“Uh, Merrill…” Hawke tries.

“A hug? A good, long handshake? If I were Varric, I’d sweep you off your feet, parade you up a mountain, and shout my love on the summit.” She poorly impersonates him “I, Varric, love Hawke—might scare the spirits with that gravelly voice, though.”

“Merrill…”

She glances down at their interlaced fingers. “You’re right. Long handshakes, then.” Varric hears the light come on. She claps her hands over her mouth but the gasp escapes, as does the squeak, then she clamps down on Varric. She’s stronger than she looks but light as paper. “This is so much better than a parade!” Her arm whips around Hawke and presses her in. “Oh!” She springs up and starts walking back to the hall. “You know who else will be happy to see you! Mutton! Don’t worry he only ate what was in the larder before we left.”

“Left? He’s here?”

“He insisted. Knocked me off my feet when I let him out of the house. I dunno where he is now. Maybe by the food. Or wine. I’ll check the wine.” She squeaks again. “So happy for you!”

In the minutes standing beside each other, Hawke’s hand had grown clammy, and hot. But he isn’t about to break their hold unless she wants to. The sky has grown rosy orange clouds spritzing the last wintery blues reflecting the snowcaps. Fluffier clouds border the mountains, but break off, as they pass over, leaving wispier streams behind. Servants light torches along the paths that meet up at the gazebo, where musicians are tuning their instruments, Maryden included.

Just when he thought no one minded them, Feynriel appears, “Sorry.” He folds his hands behind his back. There’s blood and grime and whatever else the Fade gave him as a souvenir all over his coat and in his trimmed beard. His hair, stained dark with battle, is matted against him. He must have lost his hair tie because more hair falls out of his hood when he bows. “I wanted to make sure your friends had a chance with you before you try, and disappear.”

Hawke squeezes Varric’s hand.

“Thank you, both, for trusting me. For…everything.”

“You and Sandal kept me alive all this time. I should be thanking you.”

Varric says, “You sound like you’re leaving, Precious.”

“Sandal and I have business in Tevinter.”

“Is Bodahn with you?”

“He stayed behind to hold the fort, as he likes to say, but he speaks highly of you. Honestly, I didn’t think he’d let me take Sandal.”

“So you they live with you, or…?”

“Something like that.”

“Ooh I smell a story. Over drinks later?”

“I won’t turn down drinks, and I’m not leaving until morning. Maker knows, I need a bath.”

“We all do,” Hawke says. “There should be some place where we all gather ‘round, and someone dumps buckets of soapy water on us.”

“You’d love Tevinter. They’re called bathhouses.”

“Ooh, Varric.”

“Tevinter as a honeymoon destination sounds against my better judgment, or my worst judgment, and a great cliffhanger.”

Feynriel isn’t the last the leave, but he’s the first to take the door less used. He climbs the steps in the northern veranda, leaving Varric’s line of sight. Logan and Cole remain, but she’s quiet, and simply nods to Hawke.

But Hawke breaks the silence. “I put you in a terrible position, Inquisitor. This is what happens when I try to make things right. I don’t just make them worse; I make them impossible.”

“That’s why you have Varric,” Logan says. “He’s the bane of impossible.” She lets her grin stay. “Now, this party won’t stop until I make the moon drunk off our breath. I can show you to your room, Hawke. And maybe get you some pants.”

“Room?” Varric says.

“Is that a problem?”

“No.” The warmth stemming from bodily regions is a problem. “The baths are too small here, anyway.”

Hawke grins and Logan, once again, tears them apart, but this time he feels her fingers slip away, leaving the touch of what would have been soon to later. Varric turns toward the battlements, where his room overlooks the garden. Logan seems to take Hawke into the keep, far from her old room. He says he’ll meet her in Solas’ study when she’s done, but when he starts walking, Bianca stares him down, and he has the urge to pull on his gloves. But he misplaced them.

There are puzzles in her expressions he can’t put together. From what she said, she doesn’t look thrilled for them. If he had been like Cassandra, more tough on her, she wouldn’t be here. But she is. And now he has to dance to music without a tune.

She seemed more than willing to come around only when she needed you.

He’ll never tell Cassandra she’s right.

But he won’t say he’s right either.

Varric takes a deep, audible sigh before his approach. Bianca uses her large, glimmering eyes to pull the answers out of him. She wears the scent of the Fade with her musky, sweet leather. When he starts to speak, her lips part just enough to see a glimpse of pearl. She’s trying to distract him by pouting, so he stops, and shakes his head.

“You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

Bianca reaches for his arm and he brushes her away and walks off. “It’s over.”

“What?”

He snaps back. “This! It is over.”

A wave of relief catches him off-guard.

“What’s this?”

“I dunno.” He nearly laughs. “You tell me. Am I supposed to sing for you every time you pull my strings? Or am I mistaking strings for a web?”

Fresh air gallops through the garden and cools his skin.

“Varric, please…”

“Don’t bullshit the bull who wrote the book on shitting.” He lets it sink in. Hopes it smells too. “You said you were happy for us. That’s the cliche you went with? You are married! And you waltzed into my own wedding party—”

“I didn’t know you were getting married!”

“—apparently by invitation, to see who’d dare cut me free. I love Hawke too much to let this—you and I—continue. I’m done.”

Before she tries anything, and to save her from further pleading, he puts up his hand, and sees it’s steady. He snorts “huh” and turns away without an utter of goodbye, or what she probably wants to hear him say: her name. He quickly takes another route back to his room—the one with more guards, more lit passageways, and confusing turns that wind him near the stables, where he looks up, and notices the first star of twilight. Music plays in the far distance. A muffled, happy song that carries over the glow of the castle, greeting the coming night to life. Not a new life but a new series, one that he can proudly write without the use of pen and paper. 

All that's left for him to do is shout it from the summit.


	19. The Night Before

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: "Saturn" by Sleeping At Last

 

 ** _Pages_** _stack against the wall in my suite next to the burn pile toppling with letters sealed with the viscount’s mark. I’ve shuffled the deck three times and not once tried to cheat. At this point, I’ll be digging into the mattress for coins the way Lady Hawke plays. Either her sharp intuition or the striking resemblance is dulling my senses, but I’ve explained to many participants throughout the years that it’s not about winning or losing. The way she’s enjoying herself, he’s winning anyway._

_“You’ve been with my daughter for how long?” she asks._

_I deal as she eyes me across the table, over the wine carafe, and into my soul._

_“Don’t know, milady…lemme think…” I can’t think with that look. “…Four…three years, maybe?”_

_“Four years. Hm. That’s a long time.” She takes her hand and fans it evenly. She examines the faces, then shoots a look over the cards. “You must be quite the gentleman, waiting all that time.”_

_I discard a serpent of avarice. My hand hovers over the stack—_

_“For what?”_

_“For the perfect moment.”_

_—and I pick up a song of temerity. She lets me cook in the burn and I nurse it with a goblet of wine. I breathe in a blackberry aroma and taste a spicy blueberry blend of Rivaini origin; Leandra brought it with the rest of her interrogation tools. It has a kick as I swallow, clenching my teeth, and sighing. Leandra discards and picks from the stack without a flinch of smugness, or disdain. A hard woman to read and even harder with the wine._

_“Or was the cave not enough?”_

_The wine intensifies the flare in my cheeks and I feel the sweat on my back cling to my tunic. I dare not take my coat off to give it away, that whatever she’s doing to me is working._

_Before I can respond, she says, “The Viscount has a lovely collection of paintings. Some of them quite surreal.”_

_I discard my serpent of deceit for a knight of dawn and finally gain another pair. She does the same, then looks up, and places the angel of death on the stack. I show her my hand—three knights, two songs. She shows hers. Angels and the serpent of sadness. Death included._

_“You sly minx,” I say, though I’m not sure if I’m talking about the game, or both._

_“I’ll give you another chance to win,” she says. “What do you say?”_

_“I’m all in if you are.” I gather the deck. “What say you, Mother?”_

Fresh attire and clean skin ranks number two on his list of to-dos. Before leaving his room in a haste, he had glimpsed in the mirror—a real one—and thought his hair looked three shades lighter. And he hadn’t even tried to dry it. He had stuffed his hair tie in a pocket before finding Solas alone in his study. Now, Varric makes for Hawke’s bedroom, but when he raps on the door, no one answers. It could be the wrong door. Logan had taken Hawke far and there were more guests to hold, so he’ll venture the hallways until there’s a sign.

He drags his feet back to his room along the walk above the garden where the musicians call for a break, and silence fills the night. Before he rips out his heart for aching to be with Hawke his every waking moment, voices below catch his ear. It’s dark and he’s short enough to not be noticed. He looks over the stone—

Bianca sits on a bench, wiping her eyes with her glove. Hawke stands just out of her sight, wearing a cool weather edition of her crest robes.

—and comfort soothes the ache.

Hawke addresses herself; some but not all words slip away with the breeze. A tree obscures Bianca, in turn, obscuring himself.

“I know you didn’t come all this way just to give him your blessing,” Hawke says. A sweetness Bianca can’t bear and she cries again. Hawke looks ahead, thankfully not up. “I saw many things in the Fade. You came to see if I was real.” She looks at Bianca, who has stopped her tears short. “And I’m here to make sure no one breaks Varric’s heart ever again.” When Bianca’s eyes tear up again, Hawke hesitates, but eventually pats her shoulder and sits next to her. She thinks long, then finally: “You can’t live in both worlds. You’re either here…or there.” Then she stands and he doesn’t hear it, but he sees her mouth make the words “thank you” and the rest is between her and his former.

Hawke walks toward Solas’ study, leaving Bianca with the musicians, the drunk patrons, and path lights. Varric slinks back through the alternate passages, and even though it takes longer to get to Hawke—to Solas, he manages a smile reflecting his pride, and the deepening affection for his woman with the raven hair.

“You should be glad to hear that most of the magic you experienced has left your body,” Solas examines his findings scribbled on parchment as Hawke sits on his desk between artifacts and journals. “And I do not sense any other being within, be it demon or spirit. You are you, prospective Lady Tethras.”

“What about an angel?”

“I am not aware angels exist although that does not mean they do not.”

“And the incident in Blackmarsh?” Varric applies his awareness, not hoping to impress Solas, but ensure Hawke knows he’s here two-hundred percent.

“Not a case for this at all. As I read, it was a blood mage’s doing. There is no work of a blood mage here.”

“Just a Tevinter mage and a strange, master enchanter who happens to be dwarven.”

“It is not just that. The Fade seemed to have taken a…liking…to Hawke. From what I can tell, the tree grew without the aid of any spirit, and cocooned Hawke in its fruit. A pity we needed its powers to escape the Fade.”

“Let me hear it, Chuckles.”

“A pity despite knowledge of alternate ways of escaping. Logan could have found another weakness in the Veil and opened it.”

“We didn’t have the time.”

“Maybe another time I’ll journey back to the tree and find out more.”

“It’s gone,” Hawke chimes in. “The chasm ate it.” Before Solas asks how, she adds, “It must be why my crazy spells are gone.”

“Better this way, Hawke,” Varric says. “New magic will spring mage scholars on you and turn you into a lab nug.”

“You’d rescue me.”

Solas can’t hide his grin. “Your loyalty to each other is inspiring. I only wish I could have a love as true if a kind like yours were at all common.”

Hawke plays with the corner of a loose parchment. “You could love her if you knew.”

“Love who?”

“Love Ellen.”

Hawke crosses her ankles and swings her boots, a pastime Varric could do on any ledge and never have an opinion, but he watches the pendulum, and thinks she does for the freedom. A cube becomes her next object of attention and she turns it about in her hands, watching the iridescence shift.

“Yes,” Solas says, “Thank you. When is the wedding?”

Hawke appears oblivious, so Varric answers, “We haven’t had the time to discuss it.”

“There’s that time again. Might I suggest something?”

“Between the groom and best man, you mean?”

“If that’s what we’re going with.” He excuses himself, insisting Varric walk with him. Once out of the study, and just paces from the exterior door, they stop, and his casual tone turns. “I have never encountered any mage, much less a human, who has endured a sedentary marination of the Fade. Therefore—and I must say this, not solely because you are a friend, for both of your sakes—” Varric must have been giving him an eye, because Solas stops delaying. “I cannot be certain she will ever completely recover. On numerous accounts, she has spoke of things beyond our comprehension, perhaps seeing things we cannot.”

“Nothing new.” He shrugs. “Hawke’s always been saying weird shit.” But something prickles just above his neck and he scratches at it.

“How long has this ‘weird shit’ been going on?”

“It isn’t anything serious. Come on.”

“Satiate my curiosity, then. I see you recalling a specific event. You do that whenever you stare at my feet.”

“She, uh, was drunk one time, and said something, so I put it off, but it turned out to be a code in the dream I had. Well, not had. It was Hawke’s, but I was in it. With her.”

“Interesting.” He rubs the crease in his chin. “To have slept in the Fade yet actively dream…to be lucid. She was aware of you even in her state?”

“She says she knew it was me.”

“And the spirits spoke with you, not as facades, but themselves.”

“Most of the time.”

“You mentioned Death as if it were apart from normal spirits.”

“There wasn’t anything normal about this, Chuckles.”

“But it spoke to you. Offered an ultimatum.”

“Yes. Look, I don’t deal in dreams, so I don’t know if asking me about this stuff is gonna help.”

“It is just precautionary awareness at this point, Varric. Don’t worry. There is nothing wrong with her.”

With the door still open, he glances back and Hawke is growling at her stomach. She pokes until it growls back.

There never was, Chuckles.

“We all got a bit of that Fade goo on us. What about you? Are you feeling all right?”

“I am well enough. Yourself?”

“I’m just happy we’re out,” Varric says. “Can we go party now or are you going to poop on that too?”

“No. I have one more thing.”

He leads Varric back into the rotunda and says he’ll join them soon. Hawke hops off his table, and links her fingers with Varric’s. She pauses at the clink of metal and examines his hand—a large gold band gleams back at her.

“Solas is quite the romantic,” Hawke says, leading him toward a staircase.

“Don’t tell Seeker—where are you taking me?”

“Not the party.” Her stomach growls again.

“Your stomach protests. Food is at the party.”

“Food is in the kitchen, which is at the end of a long, dark hallway, full of dark corners, and secluded, dark rooms.”

“Or…” Varric grins. He pulls her back and grabs her waist, walking her back until she’s pinned to the wall. He slides his hand along her side, tracing the curves, avoiding other curves, and caresses her neck where he thumbs her jawline, and watches the want in her smile. She bends forward to kiss him, but leaves just a breath between them; their noses touch. Her lips brush against his.

“There you are!”

Logan walks up, arms extended in her drunken bliss, and Varric tries to inconspicuously shake out his tingling nerves.

“The lovebirds! The guests of honor!” She calls back into the hall, “I found ‘em, gentlemen, thank you!” She shoves herself between them, and ushers them along. “Have you eaten? You look like you’re starving.”

Varric clenches his teeth but all hostility towards Logan’s good nature dies when they walk through the doorway and enter the hall. Decorations reaching from the ribs and down lavish the hall with rich hues, following the theme of the banners. They added tables, topped with runners, lit candles trapped in glass, and formal plate settings—not one seat empty and not a lot of walking room. A part of him thinks this is overdoing it but the energy—suddenly the sleepiness that came on when he bathed is gone, and the aura of being surrounded by people. People not fending for their lives, but fighting for who’s gonna win the next bet. Logan takes lead through the crowd, Hawke locks her hand in his, and she looks back with a smile. Light from the sconces captures a golden aura behind her, and he wants to remember that look forever. Then, she laughs, and turns, but the moment lingers as the walls of people unfocus, and all he sees is Hawke.

  

He hears Sera arguing over a game. “Shtoopid faces…lookin’ at me!

And the Iron Bull’s guffaw, followed with “we’re just glad to have you back, Blackwall. Now, drink!”

Varric bets everyone’s still here, even her, but it’s hard to see the world when he only has one thing in mind: making up the time he didn’t do this sooner.

Before he realizes, he stands before the throne and Logan spins him about, announcing the couple, and the hall deafens him with louder cheers than before. Tankards thump the tables and rattle the wares. All glossy eyes on them, resting on flushed cheeks pinned by joy bowing their mouths.

“Where shall we do it?” Hawke says.

Varric’s own cheeks sear. “What?”

“The Inquisitor’s asking.”

“None of her business!”

The guests laugh, especially Logan.

“The Inquisition granted us a boon; they’re paying for the wedding. Where do you want it to be?”

“They’re—she’s asking now?” He looks passed Hawke. “You’re asking now?”

“Yes, otherwise Josephine has to send out more letters.”

And he doesn’t want another blunder. Putting him on display makes him want to freeze time and go over a long list of answers he’s sure he’ll triple-guess unless he doesn’t think for himself, but for Hawke. He sees the Inquisition as the people who left her in the Fade to die, but also the ones he inspired to make up for that mistake. If they’re paying for it, he should respect their hospitality, but keep them at arm’s length. Or a day’s ride. When Hawke looks back on her wedding, she needs to not be reminded of the bad things. How can she do that if the Inquisition is involved? And why would she ask him when the answer should come from both of them? The wedding isn’t about one but two as one and the venue should reflect that.

“Honestly? I don’t know…”

Sera grunts. “Typical!”

“…but Redcliffe’s leaves are turning.”

Somehow, his words pluck heartstrings and a chorus of awws and applause resonate varying degrees of approval. Theirs don’t matter. Hawke’s eyes twinkle and she squeezes his hand. Logan says she’ll catch up on details later and thankfully makes sure they get to the buffet. He avoids the breads and fills the plate with rich proteins, only to see the plate empty once he sits (rest in peaceful, digestive juices, shrimp) so he goes for a second, but laughs when Hawke’s already at her third. Sorry. Fourth.

“Dessert first, ay Hawke?” Varric grins, sitting at the head.

“Hey, I tried an appeteaser,” she sets the lure and sits on his right.

Sera bites. “Wha’ ‘appened?”

“My meal was interrupted.”

Varric drinks from the tankard and flashes a look at her. He begins wondering if anyone has put more than ale in it. It’d be safer to drink out of something he could see the bottom of. But at this point, he’s drinking air—the servant hasn’t come around yet.

Sera had been hyucking it up with the Kirkwall table, specifically Isabela, which must have been refreshing to hear sailor stories from a voluptuous scoundrel than his tall tales, equally voluptuous but with hair in other places.

Still, it’s nice to see Kirkwall and the Inquisition playing well together. Even Fenris is on good behavior and Aveline knows where her law stays and goes. Daisy blushes a lot when she’s surrounded by people who like her. And because of Solas’ presence, the acceptance of a Dalish seems to overwhelm her because she looks like she’s about to cry. Should he warn her about Tiny?

As the party grows longer, the guests get braver. Servants keep resupplying the cakes and alcohol, but after days spent in the Fade, he could drink a lake, but fresh air does better, though the garden is full of sweaty dancers when he escapes the hall. While Varric had propped against the apple tree, Hawke took turns with anyone who asked, and it didn’t matter the song, or who led. She’d flail, she’d waltz, or she’d hop in circles, as long as she was free. Free to spin and spin and spin under the stars until the dawn, where the only worry she might have is if someone’s going to make her wear a dress. Everything’s ass backwards; it should be their night, their vows, then disappear as everyone else enjoys the spoils. But this has given him time to think, time to push what he had planned if he had had the guts to do this without the mortal danger. Now that he can be honest even with himself, he’s scheduled a getaway carriage, but they can’t run until Hawke is ready.

Ten years is one thousand when your heart knows they’re the one.

The band breaks for drinks and Hawke is wiping her brow when Nightingale slips her arm through Hawke’s and walks alongside her just out of his eavesdropping reach. It’s not her smile and casual words whispering in his soon-to-be’s ear that worries him. It’s the flash of surprise across Hawke’s face and the walk back to him. She exhales and the expression leaves with the breath. “Bianca left.” A twinge in his shoulder he only got when he held the crossbow up too long has returned. “Escorted, really.”

“That’s good.” He weaves his fingers together and taps his boot on the stone.

It’s there and he sees it but she’s not saying.

“Not without a wedding gift, though.”

Varric looks over at the hill of wrapped treasures. The servants moved it to the gazebo where the bards have been. The biggest gift is about the size of a round shield, oblong, and wrapped in layers of cloth tied with twine—Bianca’s style. She could figure out how to make people fly before dressing anything neatly.

“This,” she adds, holding out a small box.

“What?” Varric takes it at her leisure, then creaks the hinges open like a clamshell. A pair of ear clips shaped into metal wings stare at him. Not Bianca’s style. Jewelry? He shuts it and gives it back. “These are for you.”

Hawke moves her face in a cute confusion, and when she opens the box, a man walks by with a lantern and the glow shifts across her, as she examines one of them, before putting it back. “I didn’t mean for you to see that.” She slips it into her tunic’s pocket, the only loose fabric she’s wearing. He’s been trying not to notice how everything else hugs her perfectly. And the stitching trails up…perfectly.

“It’s just jewelry.”

“The chat. Leliana told me.”

Heat flares up his back and he wants to rub his neck again before she sees it meet his cheeks, but she grabs his hands, and he can’t look away. “Please don’t hate me.”

…Hate?

This is coming from the woman who’s made decision after decision without any regard for what other people think. This must be a part of her growth from whatever they had done in the dreams. He sees it now. It wasn’t just him learning, she did too. Dare he say the spirits were counseling them?

“Not at all hating you, in fact. Something I’ve been meaning to ask is…”

“You’re not mad?”

“I can’t be.” He smiles. “None of this—any of it—I can’t be mad. Even if you kicked her out of Skyhold via the undercroft. Literally. Shouting ‘this is Skyhold!’ Can’t be mad.”

She laughs again and bumps her forehead to his. Musk wafts from beneath her tunic, warm and flowery. After settling in the moment of quiet surrounded by the party noise, he has to say it or else he’ll lose himself in her.

“Back in the Fade, I met Death. And he—she—told me they offered you the same thing. You know what I’m talking about?”

“Yes,” she whispers.

“Who did you choose?”

“She didn’t tell you?”

“That’s why I’m askin’.”

“Did she not tell you anything else?”

“Mmmmm…I wouldn’t know. Are we avoiding the question because you think I’m not going to like it? I’ll tell you who I chose.”

“Bianca.”

“I—yes. So I guess that version of you frozen next to her was you-you? This Fade shit is weird.”

“No and yes. Death is an old friend. We talk often.”

“So Solas was right.”

“Right about what?”

“Um that you—uh—are more in tune with the Fade than most mages.”

“In tune, were his words?”

“Sort of. Back to the question that—“

“You think I’m crazy.”

“No. No! Of course not.” He really doesn’t. “I think you say exactly what you mean and I know I believe it more than anyone because I’ve seen it. And if no one believes you, they’re all crazy. It’s like Solas and Cole; they have this relationship and when you stand outside of it and listen in, you barely have a clue what they’re talking about. I know what you’re talking about and that’s what kinda scares me. It’s like…”

“…you’ve been touched by the Fade.”

“Sure. Something like that.”

“Oh Varric. I love it when you’re flustered.” She kisses his head, then snuggles closer. “If I wasn’t crazy I’d be getting along with a world full of people who think the same and wonder why nothing ever changes.” Her shoulders meet his head but she slips down the bench and leans on him, nuzzling into his neck. She had to break a hand away to do though, but now their fingers are interlaced, and she traces the vein along the back of his hand. Shivers go up his arm. “It was you.” From vein to tendons; he doesn’t want her to stop. “My first choice was my dog—” Varric coughs in his laughter and she pats him on the chest. She must have realized she’s never touched it before and shies away to the safe place of his hand. “—b-but when she said that wasn’t an option, I picked you. She inquired and I said ‘because he was the first one I chose from the start and every other start. And I’m not going to change that.’”

“What did Death say?”

“She said ‘I know.’” Hawke raises her eyes to him. “I’ve been saving this.” She pulls a letter from her pocket. “Sandal had it…I don’t know what it says but I do know that’s Mother’s handwriting. Why would she give you a letter, Varric?”

“Maybe she was a lady of taste for the robust.”

Hawke hands him the letter and sits up. “You better get any sleep you can. We’re getting married tomorrow.”

Sweet music to his ears.

“You mean today,” he says.

“And let’s hope the caravan knows a shortcut to Redcliffe or I’m just gonna run all the way there.”

“I’d pay fifty royals to see that. Where you going?” He watches her slowly walk backwards, almost into the tree.

“Dancing. Unless…you have something else in mind?”

He has plenty but now he holds a piece of Hawke’s mother in his hand. He fans the letter against his palm. “You…better go do that. I’m gonna make sure the wedding’s all set.”

“Isn’t that Solas’ job? The best man?”

“Please, Hawke. I’m just…I wanna see you wear white.”

“Aw. Scared my mom and dad will haunt you if we break tradition?”

“No. I just wanna do this right.”

"I'm pretty sure if you didn't, you'd have to anyway. Got a feeling people are keeping us a part." She’s almost immersed in the crowd. “Sweet dreams, Varric.”

He responds with a knowing smirk as he slides the letter into a pocket. Hawke turns and follows the elves dancing in a ring. They throw a flower crown on her head and spin her around as everyone laughs and claps and they continue long after he’s left the garden, and shut the door to his room above it. He can almost hear Hawke amidst them. He had made one stop to Josephine and she assured him everything is good. Dorian and Solas have sworn their lives on the arrangements so now he can lie down on his tightly-made bed, and listen to what sounds like Hawke starting a chant.

Life is much sweeter than dreams. He may never want to sleep again.

The moment he falls back onto the sheets, he’s out, with the letter nestled in, and a corner poking out of the pocket.


	20. The Day Of

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: "Heart" by Sleeping At Last

 

 **Are** you ready?”

Redcliffe rests at the feet of Lake Calenhad, where fishermen work with a cool breeze in their face and painted trees to see them off. Rumors say it used to be lusterless. It’s the anchor of the Hinterlands that harbored the mages, the stomping grounds of the king, and the conception of the Inquisitor’s friendship with Dorian. Redcliffe once stood at the brunt of the Fifth Blight, taking on hundreds of Darkspawn, and endured a curse lifted by the Grey Wardens, namely, the Hero of Ferelden. Many stories lie in this village. He wants to add just one more.

When they arrived later that day, Josephine shepherded the cats into Team Hawke and Team Varric. With everyone scrambling around, and Varric being his stature, he hadn’t seen Hawke since he awoke. He had tried, but Logan was there to conveniently distract him. “Is this a thing you Andrastians do?” he had said. “I just wanna know if she’s okay.”

She’s fine, according to everyone he’s asked since they shoved him into the inn to get dressed. It only took five minutes to change but people loved knocking when he was trying to put on his pants. The last interruption almost made him answer the door with a punch to someone’s gut, but then Cassandra’s voice bellowed through the hall, then a stampede, then one set of footsteps, a shadow in the creak of the door frame, and silence. He had peeked through a door crack—the Seeker sigil peeked back. He opened the door slightly to say thank you and she winked.

Winked.

After a cup of Antivan coffee, handed to him by who he thought was Cullen, but he was gone when he looked in the mass of guests, Cassandra had escorted him to a bridge between the waterwheel and a vista that he has been soaking in for the last half hour. The afternoon sun eases the chill of fall with not a cloud in sight, although he wishes for some, as he’s beginning to sweat in this silk. He thinks it’s silk; Dorian wears stuff like this all the time, though not nearly as dark, and so closed off at the neck.

Someone clears their throat. “Are you ready?”

Varric turns after digging a finger between him and his collar. “Sorry, Mother Giselle.”

“It is good of you to look modest. An unwrapped gift is not thoughtful, nor anticipated, nor treasured.”

“They could have made breathing holes. But thank you. I think.”

She nods. “I am honored to be here.” Mother Giselle is probably the one mother who would be. “Not many would have accepted this role. But not many understand that it is the Maker, not man, who grants us love, a love so powerful we cannot stop it when our hearts and minds are set. I hope this ceremony shows there is freedom in marriage, not bonds of convenience.”

“That’s great that you’re sticking your neck out for us, but I’m just here for the girl.”

“Laughter is also a gift.”

Guests fill the ground, behind him on his side with the castle in the backdrop, and the other with the trees and village. Mother Giselle nudges him to back off the bridge, where she takes his place at the center, facing the smaller group passing through, concealing all but a crown of black hair.

They pause at the bridge—Aveline, Merrill, Logan, Feynriel, Dorian, and Fenris unzip their formation and line the front of the guests. Solas had hid between them and Hawke, obscuring all but a white silhouette of her attire. Before he unveils her, he turns around, washes a field of magic over her, and says something in Elvehn. Then, in one sweep, turns to her side, slipping something in her hand, and after that he doesn’t know. He can’t look anywhere else but who’s standing across the bridge, staring back at him, holding a bouquet, wearing a gown, graceful as sloping, fresh snow. He must be at the wrong wedding. No way this woman wants to spend a lifetime with him. Rays peak through the trees and ripple across the scene—she takes a step. This is happening. This is now.

Something takes hold of his heart and shakes it until it hurts. Fear quakes every part of him, fear that he’ll screw up, fear that he’s confronting his desires, fear he will be even more responsible for another’s life, and fear that he’s allowing himself to be this happy to do it. He’s so scared he almost doesn’t hear the mother start.

“In the care of the Maker, we are blessed with knowing love, and more when our souls find the one we love the most. Here stand two, Varric Tethras, and Marian Hawke, children of the Maker, each holding a thread of life that, when are combined, become stronger, and not easily torn. It is here we converge their lives and also our hearts in their joy. Varric Tethras, please approach.”

His legs do the walking and they stop him from marching further than asked.

“Marian Hawke, please approach.”

When she does, someone wolf whistles, and another scolds Sera in a hissy whisper, to which Sera retorts, “What? She’s hot.”

Hawke does her best to hold in the laugh, but she looks like her mouth will burst, and she hides behind the bouquet. Little spirals poke out from an arrangement of flowers that look freshly pulled from another world.

Mother Giselle takes the bouquet and unwraps two threads from the bottom, leaving a third, and the only thread left holding stems together.

“Ringbearers, please approach.”

Aveline and Solas step behind them and prepare their rings. Varric double checks, and sees that someone has stolen his, probably in his sleep. Hawke’s too but she looks knowing and suspiciously giddy. Then he remembers and about pats his chest but his arms are frozen in ceremony. It is—was—in his other clothes—the letter. When he got up he didn’t even think to check.

“Aveline, please hold out the ring. Varric, turn and face Aveline.”

“My bride’s over there,” Varric blurts.

Aveline mutters, “I got my eye on you, dwarf.”

Yes, he almost says cusses, but she scares that back in.

“Varric,” Mother Giselle continues, “take this thread. With it, put it through the ring, then tie it, and Aveline will hold.”

It’s done. She asks Solas and Hawke to do the same. Her fingers tremble and fumble with tying. Solas takes the thread in his hands with sleek discretion, and helps her, then he takes a deep breath for her, and sighs with a content grin. Hawke copies and the mother continues.

“Today, we witness the strengthening of bonds and the joining of worlds. Our ringbearers are symbols of our duty as witnesses to support and uphold their unity in the eyes of the Maker. Varric Tethras, Marian Hawke, turn to one another now,” she takes their hands, still clutching the bouquet to her chest, “and see the one you will journey through the fire together.”

Aveline brings the rings together with Solas, slipping both along the two threads, then hands each end to the bride and groom. Mother Giselle palms the air in prayer. “Maker, we cleanse our souls in your holiness to prepare two people to become one life now and forever until they return to your side.”

She says ‘amen’ and a burst of green flames consumes the rings, thread and all. All but Hawke and Solas jump. Varric can hear the mother’s heart pounding, her composure unwavered. The flames vanish, leaving a golden chain with their rings intact and resting loosely.

“Well,” she says. “The Maker has sealed his commitment, now you must fulfill your end.” She takes the chain and slips the rings off, then presents each one to the opposite. “There are power in words, power in speaking them. Varric and Marian, when asked, answer ‘we do.’

“The promises you make to one another today are to be lived out until you return to the Maker. Tomorrow may bring the greatest of joys or the deepest of sorrows, but it is in these moments we learn that joy is best shared, and sorrow easier borne by two. Today, it begins. Varric and Marian, do you come to the Maker of your own accord to be joined in marriage?”

They say, “We do.”

He swallows a lump; tears brew in her eyes and they’re so contagious he can feel their burn.

“Aveline and Solas, please take each end of the bridge.”

Varric sniffs. Hawke sees and her tears fall. He wants to wipe them away but his hands are locked in hers now, and the ring feels like it’ll melt into skin if he holds it tighter.

“Varric, repeat after me. I, Varric Tethras, give you this ring—”

The words are heavy and swollen. “I, Varric Tethras…” he puts on her ring. “…give you this ring.” They stick in his throat and he nearly chokes.

“—as a symbol of my neverending love and faithfulness to you.”

Hawke reaches out and catches the tear on his cheek. A round of awws remind him how large an audience they have.

He answers with more gravel. “As a symbol of my neverending love and faithfulness to you.”

Mother Giselle grins. “Marian…” Hawke hiccups in a joyful sob. “Repeat after me…”

She barely makes it but the words float out over the quake in her voice and when she finishes she couldn’t have smiled bigger without touching her ears. He feels the ring on his finger again and squeezes her hands. Mother Giselle’s follow-up speech drowns out the longer she speaks. It more or less involves them again but their anxious bliss blurs what’s around them and they’re caught in each other’s gaze.

Hawke whispers through her smile, “I don’t think I can walk, I’m shaking so bad.”

“I got ya covered,” he whispers back. Then he hears his name and exclaims, “Maker, I do.”

He hears the shaking in his hands come up through his voice, but saying it out loud takes the world’s problems, and straightens them along a cliffside, where they fall forward, and plummet into the Icarenot sea.

“I do,” Hawke says.

“Holy shit,” he blurts.

Mother Giselle refrains herself, but only he sees the flicker at the corner of her mouth, and hears her snort. Then, she continues, “Varric and Marian, from this moment on, you will never be alone…”

Hawke squeezes his hands tighter.

This is it.

“Let your love be a light of hope for others. May you strive to enrich each other, guide each other, and honor the Maker by honoring each other.”

Varric glues his stare to her. His heart racing to the finish line to hear the final words.

“Through the authority vested in me by the Chantry and the laws of Ferelden, it is my honor to now pronounce you husband and wife. You may now—”

Varric snatches Hawke under back and legs, sweeps her off the ground (light as a quill) and lowers her so he’s the one to lean in. She locks arms around his neck and pulls in—she’s warm and soft, and now he knows why she didn’t wear lipstick. She presses hard against his mouth, her nose in his cheek, her hair brushing his lashes.

This is it. This is when Cassandra slaps him and he wakes up still in the Fade, with the Nightmare demon, and Anders, and everything else that’s gone bad, goes worse, and looms over them.

But there’s no slap, not even a pinch. And she’s still kissing him and he’s kissing back.

“May I present to you Varric and Marian Tethras!”

The crowd whistles and applauds, roaring in a pool of tears streaming from faces, and maybe one more threatens to fall from his own. It stirs behind his eyes caused by a swelling energy billowing inside, and he doesn’t know what to do with it. Scream, shout, throw Hawke in the air, he doesn’t know. So he kisses her harder and another warmth stirs. He breaks the lock and looks at her; she looks back thinking what he hopes is the same. Varric levels her in his arms, careful not to clock the mother with her long legs, and marches her off the bridge with everyone patting his arm, or slapping him on the back. They meet the carriage with the most decorations and he's about to throw her in but someone snags the gown. She spins back—Mother Giselle holds up the bouquet and chain.

“You forgot this,” she says, “I don’t know how you did that, but you reignited a faith that might have been lost to so many people today.”

“What do you mean?”

“That…that wasn’t your fire?”

“I quit that school long ago. Can we go now?” Hawke lifts up her dress and Varric laughs when he sees her wearing stitched pants underneath. She adjusts herself in the cabin.

“Then who?”

Hawke shrugs and Varric sees the mother look to Solas, who shakes his head in denial. Varric knocks on the carriage and politely asks the coachman to make haste. The horses whinny at the crack of reins.

“Wait,” the mother calls, “what about your bouquet?”

“You’re a bride too. It’s yours now!” Hawke rolls from the window as they lose the crowd up the hill, and she brings herself against Varric. Her breasts press into him and he swears he’s not blushing—it’s the heat. “I got what I want.”


	21. The Night and the Morning into Forever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW writing! NSFW artwork!
> 
> Thank you for your patience and diligence to these much-desired scenes. Because of this chapter, I must change my rating; I have no thought of holding back. And neither do Hawke and Varric. Enjoy the honeymoon. - Brie

**My** _butterflies are nugs, jumping and squeaking in my stomach, and every time I think of what's going to happen next, one of them pukes, and I burp the acid that just took the brunt of it. This may be my last entry for a while. I know I haven't kept up and was meaning to write every day, but things always came up. Things that involved you. You don't know this yet but I've been staring at you staring out at the world for the past two miles since I've asked the coachman how long we've been riding. I don't know what's going through your head but I'll tell you what's through mine._

_Nothing._

_I've been living in the minutes of being next to you, the real you, and nothing has been going through my mind except how your hair falls across your brow, how the little muscle in your neck twitches when you smile at a thought, and when you glance back at me, you manage to glance longer than you planned, and I get a chance to grin mischievously because you don't know where we're going, or what I've done, and I can dangle it in front of you until you squeal._

_But you haven't squealed yet. Truth is I want to squeal for you but that's frowned upon in public._

_I'll do it when we're there._

_It's a little place I found that no one knows and no one lives near for miles. With the wedding gifts, I had Solas stock provisions, and everything else we would need when we got there. It's not much but it is perfect. And I didn't want anything less for you._

_You're staring at me again so I'll put my book down._

_Damn you're beautiful in this moonlight._

Horse hooves clop against the road. Been that way for what feels like hours. He rubs his belly of nugs. Varric knows that it's not the terrible fear of making a mistake like he's done so many times before. It's the positive terror that this beautiful warrior goddess loves him, has always loved him, and it will be the first time in their lives no one, not even the Maker, can separate them. Because after this, they'll never be separate again, in mind, in spirit...

"Quit hoggin' the breeze," Varric says as his body flashes hot under his suit. He hops over to the opposite seat, and gulps through his nose.

"Me too," she says.

"What?"

"Nervous. Me too."

"Oh."

"I've never been to—where are we going?"

"It's a surprise."

"It's not a seasonal hotel in the middle of winter where the groundskeeper throws us the keys, is it?"

"Ha."

A young moon follows their carriage. If this were his novel, Varric would have added bandits by now, a dead coachman, and him holding the reins with Hawke firing magic at darkspawn chasing them. Or maybe the dog should have the reins and Varric joins the fight.

He catches himself chuckling out loud when Hawke asks what's funny. He would've answered.

"We're here," the coachman calls back.

"That can't be right," Hawke says.

He really should stop addressing her as Hawke. But how can he? She really is Hawke. Maybe her name should be Hawke Tethras.

She looks out the window—

They're stopped at a crossroads in a farm field with leafless trees except one, where another carriage sits with another coachman holding up a lantern emitting an orange glow against the night.

—and sits back down, staring at the floor a second before she says, "one of your just-in-cases?"

"Just in case," he nods.

"Must be serious." He can't help kissing her hair when she snuggles up to him.

"I want things to go right and if it's just once, let it be this." He feels the pressure of her lips against his neck. "Maker, please let it be this." He shudders and it makes her grin but he pulls her away and nearly breaks open the door to get out. Coachmen load the goods onto the other getaway carriage, then Varric throws coin purses at them and they take the empty carriage away. Varric hoists his bride into the front seat. She's tied her dress back, he thinks is called a bustle, but it looks good, and more practical for her. Good for him because, well...

"Are we going?"

He has to step on the wheel before getting to the next step by the seat but he manages. "Oh no, sweetheart. Just admiring the view."

"I know."

After he snaps the reins and the horses take, Hawke slips her hand across his thigh and leaves it there, looking away, acting as if she doesn't know what that's doing to him. He snaps the reins harder and trot turns to canter.

"Are you sure this is safe?"

"You mean being alone with you? I think I'll be okay."

She laughs sarcastically.

"How much farther?" she asks. "It's getting cold."

"I'd say it's rather warm right now."

She doesn't look. She knows. She so knows.

"A few more miles."

"You sure no one will bother us?"

"Trust me. I took every precaution. Tonight is going to be perfect."

"Eff el double yew."

And for some reason, though it made no sense when he thought about it, a flash of something crossed his mind. He heard what she meant with not knowing what she said or how; it just came to him, like he could understand her strange talk. More now than ever. There is no alphabet or language or syntax to translate what Hawke means when she says the oddest things. Until now, at least. He doesn't ask. He doesn't have to.

"Famous last words," he mutters.

Hawke looks back.

It took Varric a bit of convincing to let Leliana know the locale. He had slipped that he might be taking a detour up north. Needlessly said, the entire northern area of Fereldan is wiped clean; everyone wins thanks to Leliana's love for love. Everyone except the bad guys.

Fields cut off at the outline of a thick forest ahead. The horses brave the path in, another peaceful sign. Fereldan has its hills and mountains, a rugged tempo of landscape he could like as long as he never set foot here again in the summer. Fall seems to curb the bugs flying around, the worst part of the outdoors. And winter kills them outright. But winter can sometimes look like death. He's glad he could let Hawke enjoy the last few colors of the season before the leaves die off. This forest would cast a rainbow across the canopy if he were that tall to see. Another gift from the Maker he must wait until morning.

"Why Solas?" he asks. "Why not Merrill? Or did you have a say?"

"I had a say," she says.

"So...?"

"I have a thing for pointy-eared bald men."

"Did the ring slip on the wrong hand?"

"Absolutely. It's over, dwarf. I'm moving on. The minute I wed you I knew it just wasn't meant to be."

She still hasn't moved her hand.

"All right. Keep your secrets, human." He smirks.

Much more could not be said, rather done, but he tries to give some breathing room before he spoils the reveal at the end of this little road trip. After all, his queen deserves only the best. And it is best if he doesn't ravish her right here and now.

"He's knowing," she says. "Far more knowing than the chantry, so I wanted to slap the bull on the ass a bit."

Varric bursts with gravelly laughter. "Are you shitting me?"

"Partly." She wildly grins, then bites her lower lip, and his lowers ache.

He crosses his ankles and squeezes his thighs together, hoping something will help relieve it.

"He's also faster to contact if I have any issues."

"Like a Fade mailing service?"

"Who else can fall asleep and get things done?"

A better answer but still holding something back; he can feel it. It could be that Solas is a stranger and she needs that distance, or knows Varric likes him fine, and was trying to be diplomatic by including him on their most important day. Or she really did find his dream networking convenient. Maybe all of it. Hawke thinks of everything. But he lets it be when her lips press against his cheek and he remembers maybe he should shave again tonight. His face is scratchy and he's beginning to think Hawke's pouting red lips aren't painted, but sore.

A break in the trees ahead alerts him and his heart throbs. Blood floods to his fingers and he tightens his grip on the reins. The sky opens—the forest, its curtains, drawing back. Hawke shifts in her seat and leans forward. Her hand squeezes but it doesn't tickle. A cool breeze reaches them as they part the tree line, and their eyes peer at a span of grass and mossy rocks to the west, and flat dirt and pebbles to the east, where the path curves into, and toward a lone refuge two stories high with a loft, or sniper's nest. It rests on a cliff overlooking a valley of muted cool tones and a silvery lake. Approaching closer they see a fenced garden wrapping around the front and a gate reflecting the moonlight as he turns the carriage in, closest to the fence, where the horses have food. Trickling water entices Hawke to inquire, but he sheepishly shrugs, and offers his hand.

There's a lever he needs to remember before unlocking the door. Once he flips it down, orange bursts throughout the fort—sconces and lanterns light up with a crackle and a whoosh, and he closes Hawke's jaw with a finger, and escorts her in.

"Make yourself at home," he says. "I got the luggage."

"Varric, I could easily do that for you."

"Let me pamper you." And gives her the rundown. "Larder's that way, bedroom's upstairs, and bath..." he leans her in and raises an arm toward the staircase, conveniently masking the view beyond. He whispers in her ear, "...is just ahead."

He shuts the door behind him, and halfway through the garden, he hears her gasp. He grins up at the moon and thanks the Maker at least a dozen times before unhooking the carriage from the horses, and letting them free. If they're smart, they'll stick around, if not, they aren't worth the money. Varric slides his hand along the fence until he finds another trick; a turnwheel for a lift. He tightens his core and puts his back into the turns, watching the carriage descend. Wooden platforms lean against the northernmost part of the fort, so he assumes that's for the rectangular hole. At least for the time being. A quick fix and he's back in the house with no sign of Hawke. The larder's been rummaged through—a half-eaten stick of preserved meat hangs from the ceiling. He flicks it after he takes a piece for himself and munches on it, heading toward the bath.

Something about the security of knowing what's around you and knowing no one can sneak up on you in a place like this is the ultimate comfort. More importantly, that view.

He stands at the edge of a constructed pool. Steps lead into it and an arcade rises from it, holding the second floor with Fereldan design. The pool overlooks the valley, but its parapet adds little safety to the long drop below. On each side of the pool, attached to the fort, are lines going into the valley, and another line going around the side to the basement floor. You never know when you need a grand escape, or an ambitious game of hide-n-go-seek-tag. In truth, he had wanted this place for a while, and it wasn't until the last owner ran to join the civil war in Orlais that he had the chance. It once belonged to the chantry and then became a guard post, and then a hovel for a grizzled veteran. So it's not just a honeymoon getaway if Hawke likes it enough.

Varric disrobes, his heart beats in his ears, and his fingers can barely untie his pants. Maybe he should leave them on. No, off. On. Off. Hell with it. Pants fly behind him onto the floor beneath the stairs and he walks into the water, bracing the coolness. He wades to the seats carved in the wall and reaches for the tie in his hair and pulls it off, throwing it somewhere, then sits gently, resting his arms across the corner he claimed. Every muscle in his chest pulls and the soreness from the Fade fights the stretch, but he clamps his teeth together, and endures.

A faint crisp scent waves up from the valley. He looks over and silvery clouds reach across the sky where trees try to meet the stars. Somewhere down there is a fishing dock. If he has the energy, he'd like to cook their first hot meal together. He never had the heart to hunt four-legged creatures although some are worthy of good stew. But it's not relaxing and you can't socialize while stalking prey.

The stairs creak. He turns. Hawke's hand glides down the railing. A soft, bare shoulder peeks over, and Hawke glances. She turns at the post and Varric's thankful the water hides most of him. His cheeks flush and neck flares; he can't move. He can't stop looking.

She wears a transparent, sleeveless, and haltered robe that teases her curves into a dream sequence. Beneath are scant underclothes of lace and silk, and a dozen eyelets with a single string between her bosom.

Hawke takes her time drawing closer, and with each step, she unveils a piece of her. Step. She loosens the robe—step—it slips off her shoulders—step—to the floor. Another step. She pulls the string—and tugs—and peels the corselette away, tossing it aside. His palms ache with the urge to touch her. Step. She's at the edge. She traces the lining of her panties...

Varric clothes—closes his mouth.

...She curls her fingers around them and slides them down her long legs.

A faintness grows behind his eyes as he tries to control the sudden, quick breaths. He pushes an exhale but she moves down the steps, into the water, where the waterline lies along her hip, disturbing the surface with ripples that meet his own, until she’s standing over him, eyes locked to his, and he forgets to inhale.

He folds his hands into hers, giving into the need to feel, the need to know this is not a dream, and she's trembling. Her cheeks are warmed pink but she's intent. Intent on knowing him, intent despite how vulnerable she must be feeling about as vulnerable as he is. What if he's no good? What if she laughs? What if she's already done this and he's the amateur?

But she doesn't look away. And she's not laughing. And they're both new at this because they've never been together until now. And no one else is Hawke and Varric. Just them.

Varric guides her hands to the edge behind him. He cups her head below her ears and gently pulls her down to sync their mouths. Tingling stirs him awake and he deepens his kiss. Hawke's sudden moan entices him to work for more. He runs his fingers through her hair, he traces her neck, her shoulders, but he waits. He waits until another moan for permission. He palms her breast and a small gasp escapes her before he kisses her again. She's soft, glistening from the moon reflecting off the water. He presses her back into him, massaging her front in slow rotations. With protest, at first, he peels his lips away, and adorns her neck with a barrage of kisses, leaving one a subtle mark at the collar, sucking her skin until her nails dig into his back, and she pushes him away, only to ravage him in kind. It stings, the good kind of sting that livens a carnal must.

Hawke guides her lower half through the water; she spreads her legs, her knees meet the sitting stone, and blood buzzes through him when she lowers herself, and she finds the tip of him with her mound. It throbs against the entrance and it startles her, but she slips her arms around his neck, kisses him gentler, kinder, slower; a distraction. She rocks her hips and suddenly cool water becomes hot and tight. She sinks onto him and shudders. Every star in the galaxy swirls around his vision. Muscles seize, teeth clench, and before he realizes he's cupped her ass and pulled her off before he cries out, and releases his orgasm. He whimpers in her shoulder; it's the water, like slapping his erection with ice after steeping in a warm bath.

She gives him a moment to regain himself but she pleads with her eyes for it not to be over. He kisses her again and lowers her back onto him, as stiff as before. Satisfaction flashes over her before she moans again, and he finds her breasts moving in front of his face. A happy distraction from his highly sensitive sex still recovering, but working for the one that matters most. It was never about the orgasm but the company, and the need to feel whole at last fulfilled but always hungry.

Varric takes a breast into his mouth—she's salty and smooth, her nipple hard against his tongue, and fun to play with. He massages the other breast and when he feels one side neglected, he changes up, and ensures every inch of her is lavished with attention. He wants to grab everything, anything moving, anything squirming. He grips her ass and disturbs her rhythm. He digs his fingers into the place just above the thigh and she drops harder onto him—good to know. She pants in his ear, her musk fills his nose, a sweaty day flower blooming at night. He finds her beat and follows along. A fire burns at the base of his sex. He's ready again but it's her turn and he focuses on listening to her breath, feeling what she wants, discovering what every sound means. Her hips slow, and he finds her rubbing herself against his stomach; the angle makes her tremble, and grow quiet. So quiet he only hears the slap of the water, and the splashes coating the floor. Her walls tighten around him.

He commands the pace when she slows to a halt. He dares not move her if she's found her spot. Hawke rolls her head back, he traces every muscle in her neck with his eyes, then she gazes down, and looks into him; her cheeks glow, her skin glistens, she gapes, and her exhales quiver. He wants to see her—he has to—he must. She folds down to hide her face—no—and he grabs around her neck, and pushes her back. She gasps, delight trembles in the corner of her mouth, and she's quiet again. Her mouth gaping again, swollen, wet; eyes dilated, taking in his sharp hazels watching her, waiting for her, enjoying...

Shock strikes across her face. She mouths Oh-Maker and his ears aren't ready for the scream. Her walls squeeze and squeeze harder in bursts as if a sun exploded inside and melted her within. She jerks and moans and he wraps his arms around her, pressing her into him. She lets out a small cry that falls into a silent sob and now she hides in his neck.

A new wetness drips on his shoulder. She curls her arms onto his chest and it almost calms her, but the tears still fall. Varric lifts her away to wipe them. Those ocean blues gaze back at him, sparkling, and he kisses her softly, letting the electric sensation of her lips linger against his, until she tells him otherwise.

He doesn't want to tell her he's beginning to shrivel into that preserved meat in the larder; she's nestled in his arms, her ear on his shoulder, but if he can hear her heartbeat, she can hear his twice as well. He's about to mention the bedroom upstairs when her stomach growls.

Who ever laid out the prints for this place had soldiers in mind, or a happy tavern in the middle of nowhere. A bar with a small storeroom shares the same wall as the larder, right next to the pool and stairs. He grins at the post, where he first saw her in the robe she wears now. He's put pants on to look respectable, and truth is it's still chilly with the arcade bearing the air over the valley. And it's nice to hide his sex desiring more as Hawke sits on that stool with the fabric clinging to her damp, bodily treasures.

Behind the bar is a box he can climb on to tend drinks without looking like a toadstool with arms. He found the wine and goblets and plated some snacks.

"I'll check for eggs in the morning," Varric says, trying not to glance at her nipples as he pours.

Hawke jumps, startled since it's the first thing he's said to her in a while.

"We have eggs?" She takes the goblet and sips, then slams the rest.

"Easy there, champion. And no. We have chickens. Somewhere."

"You thought of everything."

"I'm sure I'll remember what I forgot when I do."

She bites into her cheese, then picks at the rind of her fig. Varric happily devours a clump of sourdough; he's been starving since before the wedding, and a light-headedness soon kicked in. He had an apple along the trip, and that stick of meat, but he burned off everything in the pool. He grins as he takes his first sip of wine.

"Isabela doesn't know shit," Hawke says.

He nearly chokes. He carefully swallows, wipes his mouth, then bursts into chuckles.

Hawke sips. "What's next for us?"

He hasn't thought about it lately. He's enjoying the present and all its unwrappings. "You don't mean right now." He downs the goblet and pours another. "What do you want to do?"

"I think...I want to go home but I don't know where that is anymore."

"How does it go?" Sip. "Home is where the heart is."

"I know you, Varric. You need to go back and finish Corypheus. I want to but I failed twice now."

"Fail? You never—"

"Just—please. I did and I think the Inquisitor is the only one that can fix it." She passes the uneaten fig back onto the plate and picks at her cuticles.

"I'll go...but on your behalf this time. And when this is all over, it'll be you and me."

"And a whole new mess to clean up. Shall I wait for you in Kirkwall under Aveline's floorboards?"

He hums, leans over the bar, and dares not tell her he's on his tippy-toes. "How about you stay right here?"

"Bullshit, Varric. This is someone's home."

"It is."

He revels in the drain of color from her skin as she flickers glances about the place, then resettles, staring at him, waiting for a trick, or a punchline. He smiles, takes her married hand, and kisses it. She grapples and lunges at him, knocking back her stool, tipping over goblets, spilling wine, and nearly toppling him off his crate. He almost feels her teeth smashing into his lips with her strike of passion. He hates this bar in the way—he wraps an arm about her waist and heaves her over. He fails his footing and topples the crate with them at its mercy. After the lurch in his organs, sharp pain shoots up his back, and his only anesthesia is his bride's fervent mouth. Her fingers tangle in his hair, sending chills up his arms. Varric wrestles with something poking his backside and at last pulls it out and examines a splinter.

"Bedroom?" Hawke says.

A quick nod from him and she's up, grabbing another wine bottle, and running up the stairs with him in chase.

Dawn is yet to arrive and the sky has brewed a sheet of clouds for the coming morning. Stars grow faint from the lightening blue hues but he only notices through the skylight when he surrenders to another orgasm. Hawke eases her mouth off him and collapses at his side. Varric shudders and clicks his jaw before confessing through a string of curse words, then jumping on vengeful opportunity.

He pins her arms back, kissing deep, deeper, deepest, then eases his mouth along her feminine lines. The neck, the collar...he locks her wrists in his hand and caresses with his other. Down the chest, the stomach...she moans. She's slick and swollen. He lets one finger glide along her slit—she gapes, holding a breath before another moan. He silences her with his mouth—she moans regardless.

A bird raps loudly on a tree.

His finger's soaked and he wants her again but he wants to see how long it'll take before she begs for him.

The bird's insistent and Varric growls in his throat when that bird becomes a fist pounding on a door.

"Oh that better be the Carta so I have something to hit," he says.

"I'll take care of it," Hawke says.

"No, let me."

She stands as a newborn calf would, weak in the knees. "No. If they're gonna spoil our time I'm gonna make them pay for it." She stomps out, her ass taut and jiggling.

"Are you...oh no." But instead of disapproving, his glee erupts from his chest and he hides his laughter behind a pillow. "I have to see this." He jumps up and tumbles with his trousers, hitting every wall with his shoulder on the way down the hall, also trying to shake out the hard-on. He stops at the first stair and leans against the post. Hawke, in all her bare naked matrimonied bliss, flings the door wide open, and stands there, arms folded, staring at Feynriel who is suddenly trying to look at anywhere else but her. Sandal, on the other, stares her in the face, grinning all teeth.

"Bother me," Feynriel blurts red-faced.

"Hello," Sandal says.

Varric thought they slipped away before the wedding.

"What?" Hawke demands.

"We—uh—um—wow—I wish I could say this shocks me. Thanks, Tevinter."

"How did you find us?"

"D—dreaming. Your dreams."

"She hasn't slept once, Precious," Varric interrupts.

"Uh...well I did doze off a bit in the pool."

Warmth grows in his chest. "You did? Aww." He had cradled his sleeping bride for the first time and didn't even notice.

"Once you were asleep it was easy," Feynriel continues. "Sandal insisted we not leave without giving you a proper wedding gift."

"What?" Varric and Hawke say.

Varric descends. "After everything?"

"We swear it's the last thing. I couldn't talk him out of it."

"But you are leaving," Hawke says. "Unless you wanna watch."

"Oh no. We are not staying. We just thought you would want an extension of yourself returned whole."

Precious reaches behind him and presents a cloth-wrapped something. Something he has to hold gingerly and not pointed at anyone. Something large and heavy. Something Feynriel turns over so Varric can catch the butt of it first and then the stock. He unwraps the cloth—Bianca. He caresses the stock—the metal's brand new and inlaid with special markings only Sandal might know what they mean. The wood is reddened but sturdy. He checks the bolts in the compartment where they would be but it's empty. Feynriel hands over another wrapped gift but to Hawke. She unwraps it—glowing bolts.

"Not all your power is lost. What Sandal could take from the Fade, he put directly into this crossbow. New, strictly from memory. No connection to the original except the design. No strings attached except the obvious ones."

Varric unlocks the limbs and readies a bolt Hawke hands to him. It slips easily into the chamber and when he sets it, aims, and fires at the tree behind Feynriel, the bolt leaves a teal haze, and Feynriel whimpering (and probably piddling on the Unwelcome doormat).

"You like shiny!" Sandal applauds.

Varric grins. "Oh I like the shiny, Sandal. I like it a lot."

He likes something a bit more but to have this back in his arms, and knowing Bianca has nothing to do with it, makes him feel exactly what Feynriel said: whole. And bad-ass. A man that can confidently protect his woman and a man that can hold his own when she's not around to protect him.

"What are you going to name it?"

"Does it need a name?" Varric says.

Hawke turns aghast. "You name anything the moment you see it. I think, for Sandal, it needs a name."

"For Sandal, huh?" He eyes Hawke, knowing well it isn't for him. "Well, I didn't mention it, or get attached, but..." He retracts the limbs against the stock and leans it against the wall beside the door frame. "...she feels like a Leandra."

A bittersweet grin curls his lips and he looks up at Hawke, whose eyes shine with brewing tears.

A tear falls and she says, "Great now my mother is stuck with us on our honeymoon." She lightly punches him. "You ass."

"It's a thoughtful gift, you two," Varric says to them. "Thank you." And shakes hands with Precious, then pats Sandal on the arm.

"If I wasn't naked I'd hug you." Hawke wipes her face.

"So this is goodbye?" Varric says before anything else remotely weird is said.

"Yes. Sandal's coming with me to Tevinter. Bodahn has been taking care of our home—"

"Bodahn's still around?"

"Yes. So it's probably best we get back while we still can. Your friend Dorian invited us to his house as well. Very accommodating man. If you're ever in the area..."

"We will," Hawke says. But when Feynriel's about to turn to leave—"Oh forget it."—she grabs Feynriel around the neck and pulls him in before he realizes he's staring down at Varric over the bare shoulder of his wife's embrace.

Sandal opens his arms for a hug too, but she denies him. "Not you, Sandal. You stay pure. Even in Tevinter."

"I'll keep him out of the cookie jar," Precious says, thankful Hawke finally unlocked her claws from him.

Hawke holds the door, waving them off.

"She smells like mushroom soup."

"Sandal!" Precious hisses and they disappear in a stream of magic.

She shuts it and he hears the lock click, then she sniffs herself. "Soup?" she whispers and meets him at the stairs.

"Let's get you back under some covers."

"How'd you know I was cold?"

"It's a _tit_ -bit obvious."

After ravaging each other until moon becomes sun and the bed sheets are victims of a tornado between sexes, Hawke manages a few hours of sleep with Varric as her sentinel, memorizing every curve, and feature, and sometimes placing a rogue's kiss on her forehead, the kiss you don't see coming, the one that doesn't steal your purse, but your heart with each touch. A sigh billows up and he exhales. He didn't want Hawke to fuss so he's beaten her to the daily needs. Varric's clothed; he found a clean, white linen shirt until his more distinguished attire is dry off the line he found in the garden. All the wedding gifts are stowed in the living room, with a quill and parchment ready on the small table. He had waited on the fishing and found the chickens across the field, where a small house for them contained a good amount to last them the day. The horses found a grotto in the forest and recognized Varric so they kept eating whatever long grass they found. He did have their food but they seemed content to find their own; he understood.

It's not that Varric is bad at living off the grid; he doesn't like it. He prefers the city and the people. But where there's people, there are needs, needs that he can meet, and needs that always find him and Hawke. This home is a need for each other. If they don't take care of themselves once in a while, there won't be anything left to share. Which is why he knew this would be the perfect gift for her. And he doesn't plan on having just one. He won't tell her. Not yet. Not if she's going to kiss him like that. In a few days he will have to leave her, but he won't let her be alone. He's sent letters to their friends, letting them know about the refuge, and they are free to use it. He half-joked "knock first" in the post script.

One long letter remains unsent, a book of confessions to the crimes he's committed: ignorance, negligence, and wrath. All born out of a love he's only been able to express in thought until now. A letter over twenty chapters to be precise. He holds it against his chest, lying alongside Hawke with his head propped by his hand. Inside the pages holds his heart, including the piece Cassandra threw at him. The journal clings to him, a darling long hidden away only to be exposed, vulnerable, and bare. But it's necessary after all she went through and he gets up from the bed, and rests the book in his place. He takes in another moment. Her chest rises and falls.

"I love you," he says just above a whisper and steals another kiss before heading downstairs to find a nerve softener.

The last letter is left to him, unread, already sent. Sent beyond the pyre of Hawke's mother. He couldn't brave opening it before, but he couldn't bear losing it either. In the living room, he sets his empty tankard on the table, and sits on the cushioned bench. Sunlight beams through the arcade and bounces off the water, painting ripples on the ceiling; a pleasant memory of the cave and hammock. He plays with his ring before reaching into his pocket.

He flips the envelope between his fingers, procrastinating, distracting himself with the blur of motion until it's a continuous streak of tanned white from his heavy buzz. After the mental arguments, he takes a knife, and slices the top edge to take out a folded letter. He's surprised when there's little impressions of writing in the material. He carefully unfolds the top, then bottom, and words in the center stare up, and stab into his soul so hard he grasps where he thought he'd been hit. He drops the paper and hides his stinging eyes with thumb and finger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fade Into Me - David Cook
> 
> "Fade Into Me"
> 
> All I feel now is the weight of the day  
> I need you with me to push it away  
> When we disappear into each other  
> Our colors appear and bleed into one
> 
> [Chorus:]  
> Fade into me, fade into you  
> The two of us melting together  
> Until we become something new  
> And we can escape  
> And watch the world chasing to find us  
> Both of us hidden from view  
> If you fade into me  
> Fade into me
> 
> When I'm broken you're the one thing I need  
> Like an ocean I feel you crash over me  
> When we disappear into each other  
> Our colors appear and bleed into one
> 
> [Chorus:]  
> Fade into me, fade into you  
> The two of us melting together  
> Until we become something new  
> And we can escape  
> And watch the world chasing to find us  
> Both of us hidden from view  
> If you fade into me
> 
> Let go, fall in  
> Drown in the moment with me  
> Sinking 'til we start to break
> 
> [Chorus:]  
> Fade into me, fade into you  
> The two of us melting together  
> Until we become something new  
> And we can escape  
> And watch the world chasing to find us
> 
> Oh fade into me, fade into you  
> The two of us melting together  
> Until we become something new  
> And we can escape  
> And watch the world chasing to find us  
> Both of us hidden from view  
> If you fade into me  
> Fade into me  
> Fade into me


	22. The Little Sheet of Paper II

**Vows** that hold a thousand trials in marriage live in history for both sides of the family. A legacy of trust and no one to deny their loyalty. When he became Viscount of Kirkwall, no one could run his name through Darktown, and no one would dare try it with Hawke. They could have been king and queen for how the Kirkwallers treated them. And some didn't find it particularly convenient for a dwarf and human couple to have such power, especially in public. The people that didn't matter he ignored and the people that did benefitted. After being named viscount, he thought there would be little left to do with his adventures. After saving the world from perilous totalitarianism, a fancy word for 'magical douchebag in charge," he felt a nap under a warm sun next to the love of his life was required for the next decade. But the thing about the world is there's always going to be good people doing good and bad people putting good people in bad situations. He had laid Leandra to rest, but the crossbow stayed close. And Hawke closer. Because with power comes a mighty need for more bolts and a person who can defend himself and his seat won't have his head rolling down the hall at Hawke's feet.

Varric rubs the heel of his boot to stop an itch in his sock, then sips at his ale, before regaling the eyes upon him. He hasn't sat in this throne even when he was announced to the room. He could watch people dance and build networks with glasses of wine, and mouths full of treats, but he's the guy who's deep in the crowd with his tales getting longer the more people listen in. That'll never change. Neither will other things. He feels a gentle squeeze—Hawke had slipped her hand around his when he took a breath after jumping through their final escape to Skyhold, in which he adored the long pause he got to take to build anticipation for the rest of the story.

It's Wintersend and Viscount's Way is the hottest place in the city. Literally. He left his coat spanned across the throne arms. He didn't think it would snow outside—it never snows—but now that it has, the guards seem to have invited everyone inside by the torches, and other heat-conducting torture units. Hawke stands at his side, refusing to sit, and instead is his right-hand goddess statue. There are guards everywhere but in truth, she is his security.

It's been two years since he helped stop Corypheus, and two years since Inquisitor Trevelyan disbanded the Inquisition. He thought he had seen it all.

He was there when Cullen married her.

He was there when Iron Bull betrayed her.

He was there when she found Solas.

Like Hawke, she trusted too much, and cared a lot more. But two friends? One was upfront about being a spy. The other...even he didn't see it coming.

Did Hawke?

She's been acting sweet around him but leave her alone, and the room grows quiet, and sullen. Sometimes she carries that aura with her to parties—like this one—and he wants to say something, but words clutch onto this throat, and they refuse to come out.

She's wearing the winged earrings Bianca gave her. They complement the dress and maybe she wears them as a reminder to seek forgiveness for others, or she feels like his guardian angel—er—hawk. There is always a reason a woman wears something; it's never simple.

"But like any good story," he continues, "there were still loose ends to clean up."

The crowd replies with a collective "Bianca..."

"Among other things," he says in his defense, "like Hawke's overall health."

A lady fans herself and says, "Yes, my lady, how are you fairing?" She holds a long glass of spiked cream and wears rabbit fur and silk.

"I'm fantastic," Hawke says.

A scholarly gentleman in boots weighs in. "Even with the rising Qunari threats—?"

"Maker, please!" the lady protests, "Not this again! I want one evening of merriment not spoiled by world problems."

"They're not just going to go away."

"Now, now," Varric says, "This is a holiday party and the lady is right. We are here to enjoy ourselves. The world will just have to wait 'til I'm done with my story."

Varric doesn't pretend to not see a guard nodding to beckon Hawke, and he doesn't pretend he's not pained that she slips away.

"What happened next?" a bubbly woman chimes.

"Yes," the fan lady says, "I'm dying to hear about the birthday surprise."

"It was a surprise, for sure," Varric begins again, and finds his place in his words, and a careful watch on Hawke's stern expression as the guard's mouth moves. When he sums up the night at Skyhold, and skims over the wedding, the guard leaves, and Hawke remains still. "And now happily ever after in our city of Kirkwall."

Applause startles him as the cheers pierce the air.

"A tale of true love!"

"Will you rewrite the Tale of the Champion?"

"Will you write this?"

The noise calms and he responds, "Yes, I may have let slip a few embellishments in my Tale of the Champion, but anybody that cares will know the truth, that I didn't put my heart into the book because I gave it to Hawke." The collective aww surrounds Hawke.

A dissenting voice interrupts, "If you lied in other books, how do we know you're not lying about this story now?" The crowd turns to a oblong man with slouching shoulders no wider than his hips. "A magical tree? A horde of demons and no one died? Preposterous."

"Well," Varric shrugs, "when you put it like that..."

"I vouch for him," a familiar voice rings above all others.

The crown of her short, dark hair moves through the audience until they part enough for Varric to see her whole.

"Seeker!" Varric shouts.

"I was there and can account for everything."

"No shit, it's really you! What did I do now?"

"Nothing, but I am not your only visitor it seems."

"It's quite the crowd, I know."

"That's not—"

"Of course small talk isn't why you came all the way across the sea." He slaps her iron back. "Why are you here?"

"I hoped we could speak in private."

"Sure. Let me get my bodyguard." But when he calls her, she's not where she was, and he looks, and she's not in the room.

Cassandra rolls her eyes. "She's by the punchbowl."

"What?" Varric turns and Hawke's there where he had just glanced.

Hawke checks the quiver of Leandra before walking over to him. "Here."

"Why are you—why was Leandra by the banquet?"

Cassandra says, "Leandra!?" and eyeballs the crossbow.

"She was hungry," Hawke says. "And the main course is on its way."

"The guard?"

"Warned me of a known raving lunatic trying to break through the door."

"Viscount Tethras!" Another familiar voice. With smooth edges along his foreign accent this time.

Armor clangs and the crowd scatters when a wall of men in blazing white march into the room. Sebastian Vael. Varric rubs his eye when a gleam off his gold-trimmed plates blind him half-seriously. Half-jokingly, the sight of the prince gives him a headache.

Cassandra says, "That's who I was trying to tell you about."

Only Cassandra, Hawke, and Varric remain. Guests have either left or pooled in the corners for safety, but Varric can't tell with the light splotches he's trying to blink away.

Sebastian points fingers. "You and I have business to discuss that's been long ignored!"

He stares at Cassandra, then asks Hawke, "Was she under the table? Why would you put her under the table?"

"She didn't want to be seen sneaking cookies."

He pats the stock. "Don't worry, my lady, I will never judge you."

Cassandra cuts in. "I thought that was Bianca!"

Hawke says, "It almost would've been better that way."

"You two. Honestly."

"Maker's breath, the lot of you! Hold your tongues so that I may speak! Oh, forget it. Your intent is clear."

Varric hears the stretch of a bow. Sebastian aims.

Hawke holds up her hand. "Sebastian, did you come here to ask Varric how to restore an a city in a fraction of the time it took you to whine at every leader in Thedas about your misfortune? Or...?"

"You smug, self-righteous—"

"Reading my mind, Choir-Boy!" Varric aims Leandra and the barrel's runes light up.

Cassandra thankfully has her shield handy and Hawke's arm glows.

"The more things change, Varric," Cassandra warns.

Sebastian's line of men draw swords, shields, and bows.

"Hey, Choir-Boy," Varric says. "You should be wondering how you got this far into my keep."

Varric pulls the trigger.

Sebastian looses the string.

Cassandra ducks behind her shield.

And Hawke does what she does best.

The Seeker got her wish after the short bout with the Prince of Starkhaven, who they left unconscious in the throne room on top of his pile of goons in bloodied white armor. A few of them may be dead and from the look of Aveline's smirk, he'd say he finally took care of a thorn that's been in her side too long even Varric couldn't ignore it. Cassandra sits in his viscounty office, inspecting her leather for punctures, but she doesn't have to. Not with Hawke's abilities she had practiced at her retreat while he was off fighting the war, so to speak. And not with those elven servants who happened to all have their own sets of weapons. Amazing what happens when the little people can defend themselves. He owes Hawke for that good idea.

Cassandra says, "The Inq—Logan is with the Rutherford family right now, but we've kept in contact."

"How long has Logan sought outside help?" Varric says, fiddling with his crown in his hands. He tosses it on the desk. Hawke had commandeered his official chair, though it sits so high for dwarves he always felt like a kid at the adult table, so it's naturally hers. She stops the crown from messing up a stack of papers and puts it on her head.

"Since I saw her last, I suppose."

The crown slinks down her head and over her eye. (He had it resized.)

"She doesn't want people who know Solas," Cassandra continues, "but I think people who know him should still be just as involved. We need to go at it from all sides. And..." She crosses her ankles, then uncrosses them, and sits up straight. "...you were his close friend, Varric."

"Pffft." If he was, he didn't know it.

"And if anyone can convince him to reconsider..."

"This is all flattering coming especially from you, but I have responsibilities here, and I can't walk away from that. I learned my lesson."

"Well," she raps her fingers along the chair arms, "it was worth a try." She stands.

"Seeker," he stands straight, "Logan's not the only one who feels betrayed."

"I've had a long journey, Varric. Instead of sending a letter, I thought I would make a better impression in person." She advances to the door, then turns. "I'll be in the barracks."

"Seeker..."

Cassandra leaves and the door closes shut.

Hawke dances the crown along the table when Varric turns and rubs his temples in methodical circles.

"She's your close friend too," Hawke says.

Well, shit.

Aveline's straight and true sector of the keep smells like stiff rules and certainty. When Varric walks into her office, he unsubtly announces himself. "Aveline! How have you been! How's Donnic? Love the new hair."

She sighs. "What do you want, Varric?"

Cassandra peeks out of her room just within his peripherals, and she glances through the door he left wide open, then disappears.

"Hawke and I have important public relations to deal with outside of Kirkwall."

"For how long?"

"Ehhhhh....ndefinitely."

"Indefinitely!?"

"Ssh!"

Aveline storms over to her door and slams it. "Varric, do you know how much pressure that puts on me every time you leave? It thins out my guards, I get nasty looks from Bran, and the longer you're gone, the more people think you're dead, and they demand a replacement."

"I always come back!"

"And I always deal with the possibility you won't. You're staying."

"I got people watching out for the guard too, Aveline. The servants—"

"Scare me."

"Scare you? Nooo. Say it's not so." She doesn't need to know the elves aren't the only people in the city armed, and on his secret payroll.

"I don't like how they waltz around with bows on their back and make your food."

"The more eyes we have, the safer this place is! I've done you a favor by giving more freedom to the little people."

"They're not even properly trained."

"Then you can give them some pointers while I'm away. Come on, Aveline. I promise I won't be gone for longer than I have to be."

She rolls her eyes and folds her arms, but she shrugs. "Varric, I'm losing friends. As much as Anders was a thorn, I miss him. And Fenris ran off again, Merrill's gone—everyone." She walks from the door and sits on the edge of her desk. "You and Hawke are all that's left of us. Can't I be selfish this once and keep you around?"

"Well, you could come with us as the viscount's elite guard."

"I'm not shunting my duties for you." She sighs. "Oh, very well."

"Yes!"

"But I'm not going. Just try to be back before Tevinter's war hits the city."

"War? I'm not going to any war."

"Uh huh. Out."

Aveline escorts him out of the office and Varric meets eyes with Cassandra, who's sitting conspicuously in the briefing room, pumping her heel rapidly to the ground. He looks away and lets a folded piece of paper fall out of his clumsy hand when he fumbles for a non-existent object in his pocket, then distracts Aveline until she shuts and locks her door, and he walks out.

Cassandra all but jumps out of the chair to get to the paper. Varric watches from beside a pillar, leaning casually against it, and occasionally glancing over. He watches her unfold it; her eyes flicker along the lines of a flourished bold letter, and sharp, elegant script.

**_H._ **

_It begins with the one thing I care about and everything I do right. As long as she's with me, I am alive. We can go up against an army of Qunari and do it all over again. She's the Champion and I'm the Viscount. If there's anything I have learned these past years it's that we are never alone and friends are always there to help us out of anything. Thanks to many dear friends, I have everything, and everybody._

_All except one._

She clutches her chest with it and looks up where Varric stands far in the distance, looking back at her through the doorway. He smirks, winks, turns, and strolls away.


	23. Epilogue: Never the End

Marian Hawke watches the glint of natural light on the jewels in her ring. Each angle reflects more or less brightness, depending how she looks at it, or how she turns her hand. Loved as a whole, admired in detail; all together yet different.

She could have wasted Sebastian.

Before dawn, she had quietly left Mutton in charge of her estate, and avoided eye contact with the guards throughout Hightown as she made it into Fenris' mansion.

The Veil is still thin here.

She's been waiting for any chance like this, but having Cassandra here makes this harder. She'll have to be back before they notice.

Hawke waves her hand semi-circle, an array of wards encompass her, and she lies down, closes her eyes, and waits.

She stands on a hill overlooking statues of Qunari. The breeze cools and she notices she's no longer wearing her Wintersend dress, but armor, and staff. Familiar and comforting. A pair of feet brush through the grass behind her.

"You didn't tell him?"

Solas stands in his armor, his shirt tails caught in the air.

What part could she tell?

"No," she says.

She recounts the morning she found a book on her bed, filled with pages of confessions. As her tears fell for all he lost and gained, she knew then if she didn't show Solas the other sides of the jewel, she would lose Varric forever again. Solas lied to him. She lied to him. The Fade can't leave her. She is a part of it. That's why she's here.

Hawke pricks a flower from the ground. It's blue and white with a soft yellow center. She sniffs it; faintly sweet.

That's why the end is never the end.

"Who is Lavellan?"

Hawke stares across nothing, outward, toward the hills beyond.

"She's a possibility." Hawke looks at him; eyes as deep as hers. "In worlds I don't get left behind."

Solas stares, gathering his thoughts until they're balled tight.

"Show me."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for all the lovely comments. I am glad I was able to share my adoration for Varric with you and I hope that someday I'll be able to write another epic tale, which is why I left it open for Dragon Age 4, 5, or whatever. I wanted to tie in other people's worlds they built, and the option of our characters having knowledge that there are different outcomes to their lives. That awareness is my headcanon that might stop Solas from being The Great Destroyer, and, instead, being who we hope he can be. We all wish our greatest sins can be forgiven. I like to think that by redeeming Solas, we can redeem anyone. Maker willing.


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